"Rub me there again, Aunty," said Self-Inflicted Jones, a consummate dilettante in the tradition of Hobarth and Seneca.
Aunt Gretchel was shaped to please. A cross between Self-Inflicted's mother and a supermodel, she seemed created specifically to fan his Oedipal needs.
"How long do you plan to live in my attic?," she asked, purring.
"Until the thought of you makes me sick, Aunty."
"You're so deep."
"Damn straight, sister. Faster."