We kissed and kept kissing even though his mouth is too much for me, plush and good, and I can't kiss. I try a little but then I stop because men's mouths are a changing puzzle I've had to solve almost every day for almost a decade and sometimes I just shut down, I hate it so much, I don't know how to respond to wanting to do it well. The next day I'd be off on a long date with an old man who leads with his hard, short tongue, his mouth open in a grimace around it, like an animal struggling to eat from a narrow jar.

— Prostitute Laundry by Charlotte Shane (Page 91)