As I lay next to Lori, exhausted and carefree, I reluctantly shared the secret to my long lasting lovemaking: the haunting image of Sheila running down the high school halls; her hands cupped behind her pants, her face contorted in helpless submission, her
frizzled hair dewey with perspiration, her animal-like wild shrieking, and her frantic and
fervid, yet continually unsuccessful attempts to find a bathroom before tragedy struck: yes, you could make a strong case I had more boner control than everyone besides
Matthew Broderick.