The soaring phallus that is British air got me into heathrow over an hour late, just in time to thwart my connecting flight to Rome, my connecting digits to christianes extremeties. Sitting right next to the wing, I was one of the fortunates poised to witness a bonafide lightning bolt hit the plane. My bursting enthusiasm for the girl must bide it's time until Rome now, but fear not, for I have a whole 5 pound voucher to atone for the hassle, and that's enough for porn.Track forward 5 minutes; the airport bookstore is bereft of porn, what happened to the permissive Europe I so cherish? Lickily, luckily the smoked salmon sandwich at pret a manger sliced diagonally looks and smells enough like a vagina to keep hope alive. And since there are 2 halves, that tantamount to threeway action. Hold the cream cheese, I'll churn some of my own.I feel like weeping when I see her for the first time, resting against a pillar in the less than first world airport. We pass the turn towards the train, just as we did on our initial Rome adventure, and riding the escalator pressed together, I realize the customs official never stamped my passport. I am not here.
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