I'm  Piper Cinnabon, (name changed to protect the innocent). It was a cold and dreary morning walking the cold and dreary New York streets with my girlfriend, Cynthia, a bewitching, African-American woman with the complexion of hot chocolate (she was equally as soothing and warming on cold mornings, I might add).

I had already treated her to a delicious Egg McMuffin breakfast (without coupons). I was so much in love, I even sprang for hash browns (I am considering a class action lawsuit because once again, I found no hash anywhere in the crunchy potatoes. 

Wandering aimlessly through the busy Midtown throng, we noticed one of those "Escape the Room" joints that seem to pop up every other day. Today's theme was "The Purloined Pussy!" With such an intriguing name we had to saunter inside, holding hands and giggling like two juniors on our way to gym class, where that special teacher would watch us shower and... sorry, I seem to be rambling like an old Allman Brothers song.

Once inside, we listened to the standard prattle explaining the game; 'work together to solve puzzles or riddles to obtain clues to solve the case in under an hour.' Or maybe it was thirty minutes... I become an ADD poster child when staring wide-eyed, mouth open, at Cynthia's curvy bottom. It's so embarrassing to drool in public. Strangers think I'm having a stroke and paramedics are called... very humiliating, but her ass makes it worthwhile. Even if my insurance premiums are Hell. 

I only snapped from my reverie when the teen girl instructing us, revealed the very misleading case we were to solve. True enough, there is a Purloined pussy, but it's a fucking feline... and I despise cats. They are lazy and aloof, (too much like me, in other words.) So I pleaded with Cynthia to return home and sit on my face. My pleading was perhaps too loud, at least, according to the large Amish family standing behind us.

"Nice bonnets," I told them, hoping to ease the tension. They quickly offered to build a barn for me, but barns might be against the building code in Manhattan since I've yet to see one... now, Queens, that is another story. Queens is a regular "Green Acres." We walked single file into our first goal, a  den-like room with five overturned litter boxes.

The smell of ammonia had me dizzy and reeling, like my first time with a certain gym teacher... damn, there I go again. My wanton imagination brought my eyes to Mother Amish. If she wore that bonnet with a cute, sheer teddy, she would hot! Once again, I was jerked back to reality when my girlfriend poked me severely.

"Are you ok? You look like you're having a stroke," she enquired compassionately. I blushed and placed my hand on her bottom, only to hear the Amish followers, especially Mom, gasp with righteous indignation... jealousy is such a bad trait, not righteous at all. But they all weren't appalled. I heard Teenage Daughter Amish asking if there was somewhere she could change her "bloomers." I wasn't wearing bloomers, but my thong needed replacing like the original Darren on "Bewitched." The first clue was then located in an envelope, on a messy desk. I read aloud:

"The more you take, the more you leave behind?"  Everyone stood around looking to me for a solution like I was Paul Lynde on "Hollywood Squares."

"Elementary," I retorted in my best Benedict Cumberbatch dialect. The answer is (Wait for it!)... footprints. At which point we went en masse to the next room, following a very visible set of footprints through generic cat food, the loud crunching making conversation impossible, so I resorted to sign language. While looking at Cyn, I spread my index and middle fingers wide then let my tongue slither between them enticingly. The international language.

 Mom Amish watched, screamed, "Mein Gott," and immediately crashed to the ground like the Hindenburg.

"Oh, the humanity!" I cried.

Cynthia discovered the footprints led to a manilla (or "vanilla" as my chocolate kiss pronounced it so cutely that had to pinch her cheek, accompanied with baby talk). Again I read aloud..." Can you name three consecutive days without using  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday?" My crew looked baffled..." rank amateurs," I hissed before walking to the Game of Thrones calendar on the wall.

Pausing long enough to give myself the rubbing of a lifetime while gazing longingly at the Mother of Dragons, I sprung into action, revealing the answer.....yesterday, today and tomorrow is the solution we seek, gang. Then patting Mom Amish on her full bottom and telling her "Good game." I read the message scrawled across three days on the calendar, "to the kitchen you must go."... what the Hell does that mean? I have to solve a mystery AND cook for these hillbillies?

We were delayed in our search while Cyn chowed down on a month's supply of expired catnip, but eventually concluded our journey. Amid dozens of squeaking toys (but not one fucking vibe anywhere) my teammates handed me a new smudged envelope. Seriously, am I the only one who can read? This is what I get for hanging out with Congressional types.

Regardless, I opened it and after getting a paper cut that spilled more blood than the entire Friday the 13th franchise, I read through my tears..."What is black when you buy it, red when you use it and gray when you throw it away?"

Cyn  threw up her hand and danced about like Yosemite Sam, yelling, "I know... a tampon!"  (That was some good catnip.)

After laughing so hard I peed myself (Look, what she and I do in private is our business as consenting adults, and she will consent to anything!) I tenderly  patted her lustrous black hair and said, "You were so close, baby, but the correct answer is 'charcoal'." Which led us to the patio and a rusted out grill.

Opening it, I was startled to discover a singing frog, belting out "My Ragtime Gal," as he emerged, dancing like an amphibian Rockette. Surprised, I stumbled until sprawling over a cat so fat and lethargic it must have been on an all lasagna diet. Unfortunately, my heel landed on its neck with a gruesome, cracking sound followed by a brief, very brief, screech.. .and not the one from "Saved By the Bell."

I would have enjoyed sending that so-called actor to a woeful demise. Purloined, my delightful ass! The beast was asleep on the kitchen floor like me after a bender. Who allegedly purloined it anyway, Mr. Sandman?

I grabbed Cynthia's hand and we fled the mournful scene, but not before changing the title card from "Purloined" to "Deceased Pussy." But I could tell something was bothering her so I led her into the empty pantry and as deftly as a magician, I stripped her panties, making them disappear.

"Ta-Da," I exclaimed proudly! She lifted her leg invitingly,  and I answered R.S.V.P. with my tongue. Using my patented up and down, side to side motion (yes, it's patented so expect calls from my lawyer if you are infringing on my rights.) and on my knees like an altar boy at a Bishop's retreat. Keeping an eye out for prudes, the vice squad or an irate editor who will delete that last remark with the speed of Barry Allen. (There's the horribly obscure pop culture reference you despise me for, finally) . My tongue began fluttering like Donald Trump's heart when he sees Stormy Daniels' picture on a wall (that was a two for one sale).

I could resist no longer, grabbing her curvy ass and squeezing like a Charmin commercial.  She looked down at me through dreamy eyes and said, "I didn't think you put sex in your escapades? "

Luckily for me, I'm also a ventriloquist, so with lips tenderly kissing her engorged clit, I replied, "I have to or they are threatening a PG rating.  Who will read a PG story on a sex site?"

Looking up, I continued, "be patient, baby, I need at least one more paragraph." As my fingers spread her swollen lips, I dove in like Mark Spitz at the Seoul Olympics...except my face was wetter. With my tongue lashing, swallowing her nectar like a parched prospector on "Deadwood," I could hear the Amish singing mournful hymns at the feline services, but I was undeterred, shaking my head side to side like Mufasa chowing down on a zebra.

Then she bit down on her lip as her climax surged, drenching my face and hair, my makeup running, salivating, looking like my high school yearbook photo as "Girl Most Likely to Never Know a Man's Touch."

All in all a productive morning. Now, I can only hope for a comparable afternoon, without a call from Peta's goons. I have needs, you know.