WOOF!

So much for the spring that I was rhapsodizing about a few days ago; after several glorious days, New Yorkers woke up today to overcast skies and a chill wind. They even turned on the freakin' steam heat in my building -- and the burly UPS delivery guy, who's been a featured player in my porno-cliché fantasies...

_{(''Let me just set this inside... okay, here's your pen back. Hey, why don't you come in for a few minutes and have a beer, man?.'' [SFX: Hit the ''demo'' button on any Casio keyboard] ''Say, I'll bet your back must get sore from hefting all those packages around...'')}

...was in long pants when he dropped off a box addressed to my roommate today, dammit.

Fortunately, a reader came through, and got me plenty warm this morning -- when I checked my email to find... oh sweet Krishna... th-th-THIS! In the eloquent phrasing of Christopher Walken's ''The Continental'' character from Saturday Night Live:

Wwwwow. Oh wowee-wow-wow.

Goddamn, man, even my literary powers may not be up to the task of conveying the transcendental joy with which I would attach my fucking slobbery mouth to that hairy mesomorphic torso and just lick, lick, lick you from nips to navel while I masturbated that beautiful hard dong.