Dave wants to ditch.

Across town, Dave Cox slammed his lukewarm latte onto a sticky Starbucks table. "Screw therapy," he muttered to the frothy residue. Jessica’s dingbat spiritualism and Dr. Virginia’s judgmental frowns weren’t worth the co-pay. He pulled out his phone to text a flimsy excuse—food poisoning, maybe. His thumb hovered over the screen. Suddenly, his khakis tightened violently, fabric straining against an erection that punched upward like a jack-in-the-box. He yelped. Every woman in the café swiveled to stare. Mortification burned his ears crimson. *Not now!*

Dave scrambled to hide himself with a discarded newspaper, but the headlines warped before his eyes: **"JESSICA’S PUSSY IS DIVINE"** screamed the *Wall Street Journal*. **"ALL HAIL THE MAGICPUSSY"** declared *Scientific American*. He whimpered, dropping the paper—only to find his traitorous hands drumming rhythmically on the table. His mouth opened, and a jaunty, off-key tune spilled out unbidden: *"Oh, Jessica’s sweet peach is a magical treat! It makes professors jump right outta their seat!"* A barista dropped a pitcher of milk. Silence swallowed the café, broken only by Dave’s horrified crooning.