The dame was no bigger than a minute. Her hair was pushed back off her face to reveal pale, parchment skin. Her eyes were as big as silver dollars, bl...e as poker chips, and just as opaque. She didn’t try to hide her nakedness, but stood like a marble statue: legs stiff, torso motionless. Her titties favored a couple of fried eggs with very little yolk, and counting her ribs was as easy as counting piano keys. Her quim whiskers were also blond, but they were sparse and barely did the job of. Guys left her cold, for one thing. She felt cursed. Everywhere she went she maintained an air of calm, confidence and discipline. She fooled everyone. Except herself. She had to tell somebody, or she would explode. She went to talk to Johnson, one of her friends. He was a nice guy, tall and lean and blond. He was also an intellectual. Sarah knew him well. An odd place for a closeted bisexual to be. Ever since he told her his secret, they’d become each other’s confidantes. Johnson had a huge. More

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