Lila 3: The Freeing of the Pervs

Finally, on the first day of August, my body had had enough. I possessed no feeling anymore between my stomach and my knees. I looked down in bed to see Lila pointlessly licking the tip of my St. Louis Ram. It was no use. I was done forever. I had about as much interest in sex as Michael Gilfarb has in moving to Three Rivers if Janey takes the job with Exxon. (Mental note: references to people only I know tend not to be quite as interesting to the reader.)

And I saw the light, dear audience. The Clockwork Orange treatment had evacuated my mind of all thoughts erotic and perverted. Lila and I spent our final afternoon poring over nudie picture after nudie picture on the internet, staring at all manner of gadoogle-themed images to zero effect. In the old days, the very sight of the word "thigh" on a computer screen would reduce me to a blubbering, overly aggressive mass of testosterone, but no more. I now subscribed only to the purely reproductive aspects of sexual intercourse. When I looked at Lila, I now saw the honest, decent human being whose favorite book was A Room With a View and who had cried for two weeks when her beloved hamster Claudius Maximus had injured his wee paw when a peanut M & M rolled over on it, and the shallow memory of the wanton succubus whose lips could suck the paint off a yield sign disappeared into the ether of my sordid past.

Lila and I married and had sex two more times—joylessly I assure you, and only to create two fine bouncing baby girls, Hestarene and Mollipoddle. We live safely enclosed within the walls of Harmony Hills, spending our days painting graphic images of couples whose cheerful shnazzing only belies the emptiness within them. The population of Harmony Hills has increased four hundred percent in the past two years, and there's talk of our great leader, Zorn, leasing Giants Stadium to stem some of the overflow. I urge you, dear friend, to go back to the beginning of this trilogy and read it again and again, so as to slowly sap your dreams of sexual misdeeds. Think of Lila's saga as a gentle erotic lathe gradually grinding down all of your impulses to lick, suck, shnazz, finger, stroke, and probe. By the twentieth reading or so, I feel confident you'll be ready to join us and start a brand new life, even more confident than I am that you'll stop midway through, close this book, and think to yourself, "Good God, who wrote this crap?"

THIS TRILOGY IS HEREBY DEDICATED TO THE BRAVE YOUNG GIRLS OF ARMSTRONG SENIOR HIGH CLASS OF 1988, SO MANY OF WHOM, I SEEM TO RECALL, POSSESSED SERIOUSLY SMOKIN' RACKS.