My darling, pitiful plaything, get down at my feet. Every soft touch of my toes should remind you of your woeful inadequacy, of how you could never truly satisfy me. While I bask in the attention of real men, you’re left to hear stories about my adventures and deal with what’s left behind. If I decide you’ve earned a moment of release, understand that every drop is a sign of how little you matter, and you’ll treasure it as the harsh reminder it is. You see, while others make me moan with real passion, you’re only left to handle the aftermath and the mess.