A collection of reader submissions rejected from Penthouse magazine's elite Forum section...
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Over multiple rounds of "Gin And Juice" I strategically laid the path to romantic bliss with a discreet line of inquiry into her charmed life, encountering bashful yet playful attempts by the fox to shake the hound from her trail. When asked her name, the witty temptress replied with, "You got another smoke?" When I inquired into her age she purred "You gonna fuckin' light this shit or what?" My questioning into her choice of occupation was twisted into the delightful non sequitor "Why don't you smoke Newports? Newports are the fuckin' shit."

Next thing I knew, we were in my apartment sharing a bottle of red wine. Ordinarily I would have been content to end our rendezvous by getting her phone number and recommending that she pick up a copy of "Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man", essential reading to anyone about to undertake the journey into the labyrinth that is my existence. I would never insult a young lady whose acquaintance I have just made with some trite "pick up" line such as "Your place or mine?" but in this rare case her hand could not be removed from the fly of my Dockers no matter how far I walked down the block. These modern aggressive women and their spontaneous ways! But a woman needs to feel like she really knows and understands a man before she feels comfortable enough to be intimate with him and I welcomed this opportunity to share my romantic past as she did the same with more visual means by pulling down her skirt and displaying the names of former paramours tattooed across her rip young buttocks. I found this sight so inspiring I was moved to a jazz improvisation on my Casio which in turn moved her to a modern dance interpretation atop my coffee table, our collaboration bringing us together not as man and woman but as ARTISTS - Two spiritual entities bound as ONE - until I had to stop playing because she was naked atop my Casio while her tongue did a pirouette inside my mouth.

Finally, she descended from atop my coffee table and completely removed her clothing. "I can tell you want me," she breathily spoke into my ear. "I can tell because you're a dirty boy. You want to touch my love mounds don't you, you dirty boy? You want to feel my breasts perk in your grubby little hands. And then you want to take you love-muscle and pound it into to me, don't you, Pigpen?! You want feel yourself throbbing with the tremors of lust and passion. Well come on you dirty boy. Give me what you've got. 'Cuz I'm a dirty whore!!. GIVE IT TO ME!"

"Gosh," I replied. "Couldn't we just cuddle?"

Obviously my genuine respect for her womanhood had a tremendous effect on this youthful vixen. She was so excited to be in the presence of a gentleman that she immediately put all her clothes back on before she lost control and burst into flames. I wrote down her phone number and she was so eager to make sure she could be there to pick up the phone when I called that she ran out of my apartment, down the hall, and into her future as my woman. Just thinking about her makes me feel something stirring down there. No, wait, it's just the cat on my lap.