Just once, that's all. Once.
But once is all it takes, isn't it? Afterwards she whispered it around, until finally, one person finds you and questions you about it, and you're left with nothing but the lie as a defense, which they don't believe anyway.
It was just once.
Once, I screamed out Judy Garland's name during sex.
I don't know why. How do you explain it? "Hey, honey, geez, I'm sorry. I was thinking of those munchkins." No, I don't think so. "I was reading the biography earlier." I mean, come on, there's nothing, nothing you say, that will explain Judy Garland's name leaping from your throat in those blissful moments of union.
And that's not the worse part. I can handle her screamed. I screamed. I can even handle the rumours. They're not that bad in the end. No, not really.
It's the sick fucks that ring you up at two in the morning, and say, "I'm all covered in silver paint and holding an axe," that bother me. No one deserves that kind of come on. And what kind of fuck things holding an axe will turn me on, huh? I screamed out Judy Garland not the fucking Tin Man!
But at least they're not the ones with little dogs that they call Toto.
It was just once, did I mention that?
The next time with her, I screamed out Julie Andrews, but does anyone offer me a class of young girls and a nun?
Not fucking likely.