Annie Sprinkle, the lover of men and women alike, the oversexed goddess who celebrates her slutness finally announces after an hour of packing, primping and phoning that she is now ready to leave.

[I]f you love him not, then you can love me, and, therefore, can come to please yourself, willy-nilly. What! am I to be thwarted in such a trifle? Willy-nilly, I say, I will marry thee. Come—we waste the time.

[…] Cyril’s attitude to his mother was marked by a certain benevolent negligence

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