It’s not until the break of dawn that the darkness gets to take a break. That’s also when the pain of losing yesterday’s love begins to lift.
Due to unfavorable weather (or, rather, favorable), we couldn’t make love in the rain. So instead we had sex in the shower, despite grandpa taking a bath in it.
I hear “I love you,” but I see “I love myself.
I'll never forget my time with her. The two of us made love like three lawn chairs—the kind that fold up.
I make love like hello, good to meet you. I would say hi, but I like to stretch it out and really make the sex last.
A soldier wages war, and for what, minimum wage? I’d rather make love for free—or better still, get paid to have sex.
Love is a fur helmet in a new sport called Petting, where physical contact is the object of the game. Even when you lose, you win.
Taste my tears and tell me I don’t have the saltiest love you’ve ever licked. My love for you is like a liquid potato chip.
When I think of you, I immediately think of someone else. That’s what I call love, and that’s why I never call you.
She said her heavy luggage had wheels, so I said, “Here, why don’t I carry that for you?” I was in stupid love.
If you find semen in your beer, you’ll no longer have to wonder why I no longer have an erection. Love touches us all, like I touch myself.
Never respond to an angry person with a fiery comeback, even if he deserves it...Don't allow his anger to become your anger.
I’ll make birthday to you like turkey on wheat. Hold the mayonnaise—and hold me tightly. My love candle burns bright for you like a black hole.
Francis Bacon has the most delicious last name ever, followed closely by Johnny Scrambledeggs. I make love like those two guys make breakfast out of family reunions.
Nine times out of ten I left one out. But the one I leave out is never love. I always put love in—even when I put it in your butt.
I shaved my pubic hair, glued it on a wig, and declared it art. No museum was willing to exhibit it. I should have sprinkled cheddar cheese on top and called it An Ode To Love.
I can throw an orange like a baseball, but I can't eat a baseball like an orange. It's like that with love too, only with less velocity and fruiticism.
I’m unreliable, admittedly, so you can’t believe me when I say I’m unreliable. I’m also in love, so that may contribute to my unreliability.
I love with the heart of two men. Well, I would, if that damned neurosurgeon would go ahead and replace my left brain with the heart of a midget.
I’m a fake fact factory. The things I make are the things I make up. Also, as a side business, I make love. Actually, I just made that up.
Women, who understands them? Not men—and certainly not women. Perhaps only cats do. But who understands cats? Perhaps only Orafoura, the last remaining Cupid and sole savior of earthly love.
