[Ultra Peanut]

The following is a lost chapter from the erotic memoirs of Dennis Reynolds.

I don’t remember exactly how my shapely ex Lucy and I wound up on a double date with pop superstar Sting and his wife Trudie Styler. But there we were back at His mansion — Sting playing His lute, Lucy playing mine.

Sting is legendary for His epic, endless, marathon lovemaking sessions. I had heretofore been known for brief, jarring, traumatic lovemaking sessions. But Mr. Sumner seemed genuinely impressed by my raw, unformed eroticism. I was an apprentice ready to become a master.

I am not saying that Sting and I made love, but rather that He made love through me, as though I were an eager marionette and He the puppet master. I am not saying that Sting put His hand up my ass, but rather that I was the extension of His genitals.

Sting guided us through all of the tantric positions, one of which involved two of His Grammys and left a sizable tear in my scrotum that remains sensitive to this day. His Holiness also taught me how to direct my orgasm inward, which is not unlike holding in a sneeze — unnatural, warm, and unbelievably painful.

After what felt like days, nay, months of humpery, Sting ejaculated so strongly that He died. Luckily, He returned to Earth shortly thereafter, and informed us that He has eight lives to go. This is probably as good a time as any to mention that Sting is half-cat.

Every little thing He did was magic. Every breath I took, He was watching me. I was wrapped around His finger. He stood too close to me. He put His message in my bottle. He is most definitely the King of Pain.