But they're so cute, with their little bicycles and their little white shirts, and they come up to your door and say, "Do you have a minute?" And then you invite them in, fix up a couple glasses of garden fresh strawberry lemonade (because it's not milkshakes that bring the Mormons to the yard, you know) and talk about the good Lord John Smith and his golden wubbidydoo that had that hieroglyphics on it.

The trick to make it a steamy affair is to quickly excuse yourself then turn up the central heating. Ask engaging questions, like, "What do you think John Smith's favorite color is?" They'll start sweating soon, and when you see the beads on their forehead, and those drip drops trickle down and collect on their cute little eyelashes, you can begin prepping them with light noises. A gentle sigh here, and a little, "yeah... mmhmm" there. I like to keep my legs crossed tightly, and flex my thighs a little It sends the subtle hint that I'm growing impatient, that I'm longing for the true reason, the best part, the words that lift me to a level of heaven John Smith couldn't handshake his way into... Eventually, they'll stand, and you'll stand too, and they'll appear nervous and unsure. Maybe one of them will say you're so nice, considerate, that you're just the type. And you'll continue playing impatient because those words are bringing you closer and closer to ecstacy, and their blush red cheeks and dashing eyes are drawing you further and further into the moment. Just as he closes in, his hand extending to you, you feel the words pushing up the arch of your back, your shoulders rising, a sudden brisk cool of air warming the moistness of your lips... "Aaaaaah... ya ya yaaaaah... ya ya yaaah... yaaah ya ya..."