My sense of fashion is unmatched. Also, my socks are unmatched. My feet have grown cold, but my love for you has not.
Love is like trying to put out a fire with a pair of scissors. I have a thing for redheads with short hair.
We made love like I made breakfast—a breakfast for one. Still, when I eat alone is when I have the best conversations.
The sign outside of the prison said, “Free Johnson,” and I said, “Why would anybody want dick for free?” What kind of lover would that make?
My impression of love: I found her—lucky me. I found her—unlucky her. She’d probably agree with me, which would be a first.
After dinner she asked me if I was in love with another woman, and I answered honestly and said, “I think I’ll help myself to seconds.
I love her like a major holiday. You know, not enough people celebrate the joy that is Tax Season, with the High Holy Day coming on April 15th.
I loved her like elephants like remembering stuff. Those bastards just won’t let me forget and move on.
A woman wants all the men to love her, and a man wants to love all the women. And as for me, I just want to be a shepherd, though not for sexual purposes.
I’m an accountant of sorts. But I don’t count my money—I count your love for me. That’s all that really matters in this world.
Winter is nature’s way of sitting on the sofa and not doing a damn thing. When love grows cold, maybe it’s just impersonating January.
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.
