Hold me to your bedpost, and make me squirm/scream for the padded pressure of pink furry velcro restraints. I'll spread my legs/spread your love as you polish my desire in a flannel cockring held just so. I'll talk theory and make you like it. We can go slumming through the most epistemologically underprivileged areas of the library. I'll tie your white, over-privledged ass between two rows of bookcases, and you'll be apprehended by a jury of your peers on a scaffold of degenerate typewriters. I’ll fuck you till you’re speaking in tongues and declaring Jane Torpedo yr one and only true god; you’ll have multiple orgasms of postmodern anxieties until you scream for my mercy. I'll drool as you thrash about with frustration (in the most dually naughty cartesian sense possible) trying to talk your way out of the velvet covered luv chamber of my foucauldian panopticon as you plead for me to fuck you to a new tomorrow. Afterwards, I promise you’ll give a flying fuck. Believe me, it’s what’s best for the both of us.

The moral of this story is as thus: after several near misses, crossed wires, and breaches of contract, Jane Torpedo perceives a potpourri of turbofuck in her immediate future.

Please direct inquiries, offers, confessions, etc, to Jane Torpedo at thematrixofyourlife@hotmail.com And remember, kids: Jane Torpedo luvs you.