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Home Is Where the Hard-On Is
When I pulled into the drive as I returned late that night from Malibu, I was all set with my story about taking Zittpopper to dinner and listening to him rant for hours about the history of religion and the contradictions of existentialist Christianity. It wasn't yet midnight — not late by anyone's standards unless you sort mail for the postal service (in which case, it's early). Anyhow, reasonable as the hour was and I hoped my story would sound, my careful advance preparations were unnecessary. I found the house dark and Felicia already sleeping soundly in our bed. It must have been quite a day at the gallery, but I checked my cell again before placing it in the charger and slipping under the sheets myself, and she'd left no messages. So I was thinking
