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Unfortunately, gold-digger or not, ‘The Thrill of Ms. Nuckeby’ was taking its time abating. In fact, it had actually begun struggling its way to the forefront, charging out ahead of ‘The Modest Joy of Mindie’ like some exciting, long shot race where you’ve bet on the wrong horse.

Stopping short on the stairs for a moment, I wondered if maybe it was really such a bad thing to have a woman who wants you for your money if she let you squeeze her breasts a lot—and without reservation.

Ms. Nuckeby. Soft and pliant.

Gloop.

I sighed and shook my head like a spider had landed on it. No. Mindie fit. Ms. Nuckeby was a disruption—and besides, I

really didn’t know a thing about her. She could, in reality, be an evil harpy who, once she had my money, never went near my penis again. Perhaps even ridiculed it. Poked it with sharp objects while I slept. Who knew? I had to keep reminding myself that I had absolutely nothing to go on where her intellect, perversions, and mental state were concerned. ‘Semen interfering with brain activity’ indeed.

I could see this called for drastic measures. I’d have to masturbate—repeatedly if necessary—to remove her forcibly from my head. It had worked, eventually, for Mindie all those years ago. It would work again tonight for Ms. Nuckeby, and the lingering sensation of her gripping fingers.

Bloop.

After a good hour or so of rigorous clearing of the plumbing— she’d be forgotten.

Ms. Nuckeby, that is, not…em…

Mindie. That’s it. Mindie.

Or maybe it would work by tomorrow morning, before Mindie arrived.

I lay in bed spent and exhausted, having done my level best to expel Ms. Nuckeby from my mind, and various other body parts. But after repeated attempts—more than I’d ever managed before—she still hovered before my mind’s eye. Smiling. Tanned. Naked.

Well, naked except for the gold high heels.

Perhaps it would just be best to make peace with it. There was no rush after all. Mindie wasn’t here, and wouldn’t return until morning. She would never know. I would certainly never tell her, and Ms. Nuckeby wasn’t talking. At least not to anyone outside my head.

But definitely by tomorrow. Thoughts of Ms. Nuckeby had to be gone by the next morning before Mindie arrived. In the meantime, I would let my model—and what remained of Satin-Lace-Babydoll # 43—cuddle up beside me in my mental bed.

Somewhat relieved—as if accepting her continued presence had somehow purged the demoness—I rolled over, drained and exhausted, and fell instantly asleep.

The entire night, I dreamt fitfully and constantly of Ms. Nuckeby. She rarely wore clothes. On the few occasions she did, they were transparent.

In my most disturbing dream all the gratuitous nudity, harsh language, and adult situations would have earned it an ‘NC-17’ had it been shown in theaters. Fortunately for me it wasn’t, because in that dream my penis was small, black and withered, and people were laughing at it.

Then Ms. Nuckeby—more naked than I had ever seen her—took it in hand and defended it to the hecklers surrounding me. Warm and protected, it regained its natural, flesh-colored appearance and swelled to ten times its actual size.

And glowed.

Then Ms. Nuckeby turned into Mindie Butterwycke, and the little redwood acted, once again, as if he’d been sprayed with Agent Orange.

Why can’t dreams be less surreal and easier to interpret?

The next morning, I awoke alone and was pleased to realize that my first thoughts were of Mindie.

I smiled. I felt warm, relaxed, and comfortable, ready to settle into a cozy relationship of not walking on romantic beaches, rarely, if ever, kissing, and never touching breasts. It wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d be able to have sex, albeit with a condom.

Eventually.

That was an improvement to no condoms, and my right hand. My needs really were surprisingly simple. I mean, really. Who wants a sexy supermodel whose profile can induce erections from five blocks away, or whose voice can instill that same stiffness simply with the whisper of potential