Patterns

You handcuff me to the bed. Then comes the tickling feathers. Followed by the sugar free rice pudding over my stomach. Then the Michael Bolton CD played loud. Finally the K-Mart hair brush with the stiff bristles.
You release me and we have green tea on the veranda, watching the sun go down.
We've fallen into a predictable pattern, my dear, something those in our class avoid like the plague. We need a new direction.
I suggest a Korean masseuse and a full body massage. Then we put on white face and perform improvised Japanese Butah dance in darkened rooms. Continuing with the Asian theme, we don g-strings and engage in a series of sumo collisions. We cool down with yoga, listening to dirty sections of The New Testament. We call your mother and put her on speaker phone as we perform a version of a particularly difficult Circe de Soleil segment involving straddle and thrust moves.
Hot chocolate should substitute for the tea.
However, watching the sun set remains intact because that is OUR thing, my dear. That will never change.