(Nearly simultaneous now, the flash and crack almost upon Me, but I'm not scared even though I'm alone in the landscape and tall as a pylon. I embrace the terror of the real, the set for fictions called reality and make them all Mine, taken deep into the hardcore of myself. My power throbs alone, content and magnificent.)

Whiskey sex shack
Whiskey sex shack
Mountain come, mountain do

Narration to "Whiskey Sex Shack"

Nurses like me who believe in climbing into bed with our patients, and giving them complete sexual relief, really are angels of mercy, in my opinion. The doctors and the administrative staff may not think so, but just ask the guys in the wards.
Any stud young or old, who's recovering from a minor ailment, and who has a hard on just lifting the bed clothes to the ceiling, needs sympathetic understanding and relief desperately! If the nurse doesn't give it, then she's not doing her job.
Now won't you climb up on this table. Jerk off that gown. Raise up that left leg. Lift that right leg down. Pull off them stockings, that silk underwear. 'Cos the doctor's got to cut you, mama -- don't know where!
I'm a writer for TV Guide. I write about country artists. Did ya ever hear of the Grateful Dead? They played at my wedding. My wife's a model. She poses for artists. She poses naked. Tits, hiney (heiney?)*, everything. She makes more money than you and me both. I hired a private eye to follow her around all day. He keeps a little book of all the people she fucks around with behind my back. He's very expensive.