In Pussywhipped, the sequel to Cockblocked, anti-hero Steve Collins discovers you can have too much of a good thing.
Finally having sex with the woman of your dreams is a lot like traveling to Paris: it's better in your imagination. The food is never quite as good as you anticipated; there's a line at the Louvre. Shopping is just as boring as it is back home. The people-watching, meh. French women don't get fat because they all smoke, which means they all smell like my Uncle Jerry. Riding the Metro at rush hour is a real drag, pun intended. The French men actually pull the style thing off a lot better than their women, but their plumage is lost on me.
So you finally make it with the one you've been thinking about for ages, and it's time to decide whether to go back for seconds. That decision—and it is a decision, despite all evidence to the contrary—is based not on your dismay over smelly feet or a dirty apartment, but for the quality of the patisserie. Yes, the patisserie. Every block in Paris has one, with a display window that can melt the firmest resolve. They all look good, but there's no way to tell until you take a bite.
We all know the beautiful tart with the leaden crust, the comparatively ugly financier so addictive that you made a second—third!—stop later in the day for more. The éclair that left you craving something a little more daring. Glacéed fruits tasting only of sugar, leaving an impression of sweetness without personality. And the magnificent cream cake that ruined your favorite tie, a worthwhile loss. Sometimes, more is more.
© J.T. Willow