She looked like sex, sauntering towards him on legs long enough hang power lines and a body as slick as European butter. Her nipples rose and fell with each step, offering a howdy-there-soldier-salute each time they bounced up to meet his eyes. They were staring at him. Staring into his very soul…

“Hi,” she said, in a voice which sounded like sex, her pink tongue tying an invisible cherry stem around the single syllable.

Charlie did not answer. He could not breathe. He could not think. His pupils were fixed upon her second pair of eyes, those erect, desperate nipples which still bounced though she stood still.

“Is that for me?” she wondered, reaching for the package with five fingers which were shaped like sex – lithe little submarines which might soon dive into the skin of his oceanic bum. Down. Down. Down.

“Ye—Yeah…” sputtered Charlie, hoisting his package into the air. “Just go-gonna need a signature, mam…”

She reached into her pocket, though she was entirely naked, and produced a pen which looked like sex, its pleading tip dripping a moist, musty ink onto the floor.

“Sure,” she smiled, spilling that blue sex-juice onto his rattling clipboard. “Anything else?”

Charlie retreated onto the porch, thinking that the mere aura of the woman might soon stop his heart. “N—No, mam,” he whispered, grabbing urgently at the front of his pants, fearful that they might soon launch a rocket.

The door fell shut against his face. He fell to his knees, feeling a sudden pain in his chest. His heart had given out. The mere sight of her had killed him. Cardiac arrest they called it. It felt like sex…