All of your languishing women, we

Oh how we awaited Jonathon's return each day with quivering bulbs. How we, your putrid wives, peaked over the azaleas from the white-framed panes of Goblin Fantasy Shack 2*, awaiting your return. How we fondled the floral embroidery of the curtains. How we breast-fed one another to cut the numbness with warmth. How we nearly touched orgasm at the thought of home's turf sucking at your bootknobs--do we recognize those boots? Do our spasms of pleasure color the leather like desert sand and hipster gland?

Now let us, dutiful domestics, legitimate the coming of Jon by bearing up our wombs and laying such a fertile feast of words as this blog has ne'er seen.

* The first, as you know, was peed on by a bandicoot and so nullified.