The Antarctica of Sex

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"Are you saying I'm frigid?" she asks in a voice all neurasthenic.

"You're not frigid," he calmly replies. "You're downright cryogenic!"


She's no mere frosty root beer float, as everybody knows.

She's frostbite that requires the amputation of your fingers and your toes.


She's not the kind of woman you would want to be your wife.

Her demeanor is downright glacial. She'd be a blizzard in your life.


She has her own katabatic wind; away from her it will always blow

to hinder any explorer who would gain the heights of her inner plateau.


She appeals to a certain adventurous type: with her he wants to play.

But those who have the sense that God gave gravel simply stay away.


Cold and hard, pale and bleak, she's really not very nice.

She contains the cold of many thousands of cubic miles of ice.


Like a liquid helium spewing dragon the size of Tyrannosaurus rex,

she's vastly more than an ice queen: she's the Antarctica of sex.


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