Regardless, the author felt that this was something which needed to be said, and not exclusively for the purposes of conjuring Nyamo and Yukari into a squirming circuit of flesh. This piece of mental cavity insulation doesn't even try to convince you it's sexy, instead it climbs up on a pyramid of its own dead and bellows the line “you cum like a sixteen year old virgin” at you though a megaphone. I'm guessing that weird little turn on for the writer accounts for nine tenths of why this even exists, seeing as it alone comprises the plot: “will Nyamo get Yukari to admit that she's the one who really cums like a sixteen year old virgin? Tune in next week!” The odd, tired line is dragged out for no less than three repeat appearances in the space of a page, during which time Boti forgets even the pretence of caring what happens to the rest of the fic. Whoever these increasingly vaguely sketched characters are, they fall on each other again and again as if for the first time; their names nothing more than a sentimental throwback to when they were something other than poorly-calibrated cliché-powered fuck machines, their leathery flesh by now freely exuding litres of pure tedium before, with the ubiquitous literary equivalent of a wink to the camera, another pale fantasy splutters out. For those whose persistent, gnawing sense of loss fails to abate in the face of such roundly upsetting sex, a robust diet of similarly mass-produced Sakaki on Kagura action is promised within the week.

Incidentally, I've touched on this before, but it features again, so I may as well mention it. Namely, why is it currently in vogue to write sex scenes with the mental atmosphere of a going over in a back-alley? It might be a failing on my part but I can't help but find lines like “I pushed my fist into her again and again, until her screams were incomparable,” more evocative of a torture chamber than a honeymoon suite. This is really more Uday Hussein than Don Juan.

From a rather coy Azumanga warm-up to ten minutes with a FLCL fan which reads like an extended session on a therapist's couch. It's two years since Haruko left, but Naota is determined to “Never Let It Go” so he's begun wearing leather pants, hella swearin' and listening to Cradle Of Filth. Understandably depressed at his gaping lack of taste, and with a dearth of male FLCL characters to whom he might turn to in order to keep the dreaded wet dreams at bay, he does what everyone on planet fanfiction does faced with a mild detour: he immediately tries to kill himself. At least I think that's what happens since the suicide attempt consists entirely of (look away now) going to sleep face-down! Jesus Fucking Christ, this is worse than Se7en! What next? Not changing his toothbrush every three months? At least it puts things in perspective; all those nights I've climbed into my warm, comfy bed and wrapped myself up tight in a big, fluffy duvet I didn't know just how much of a chance I was taking. I was a sick man.

Unsurprisingly, Haruko returns, only to be met with a “tongue in between her moist lips, exploring the warm cavern of her moist” ... yes? And lines like “God, you taste good. I'll bet you cum tastes better though.” Tell you what, I'll bet it doesn't. Still, off the pants come, and regular as clockwork all our old friends appear: “slurping”, “spread”, “licking”, “milky-white” and, most puzzling of all, “throbbing red womanhood”. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not a strange and sinister description. I don't claim to understand why the author seems more in mind of say, a penis, than anything else when he's picturing what goes on inside a girl's underwear. Still, apparently there's some rather forgiving aperture down there, because it's not long before Naota is cramming fingers and thumbs and his telescopic tube-like tongue into various “sweet spot(s)” and “backsides” and “probing deep” like there's no tomorrow. It sounds congested and uncomfortable, but it's apparently enough to trample Haruko's grapes, and out all her sweet, lightly carbonated essence comes gushing.

Oddly, Naota doesn't squirm out of his trousers for the purposes of beating one off and shoving the shower head up his arse, no matter how much Haruko seems to be hoping for that. Instead, he wants his good forty-five minutes worth of slow thrusts into some warm moistness, thankyou, and if it means the girl ends up getting tossed around like a limp mannequin, all the better. There's hair-stroking, chiseled torsos, deep adoration and much fewer liquid noises than you'd expect. Somehow we end up with Haruko “gently” giving her eternal love a rectal examination to the strains of the Beatles' “Hello, Goodbye.”



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