There are songs that come from the heart and soul. This is not one of them. There are songs that come from the mountains, the valleys, and the rivers. This is not one of them, either. There are songs that come from between the damp, sticky sheets where lovers wrestle in wild abandon. This is one of them. Moonlighting as a Gynecologist is not another sappy romance novel designed to titillate women, brow-beat men, and bore the living hell out of anyone who doesn’t go all weepy-eyed over daytime soaps, homeless puppies, and sentimental music by Barry Manilow. This book is a tacky testimonial to tongue-kisses, titty-feels, crotch rubs, and bodies wedged together in unhindered and unholy union. I’m talking eager, pink, tangled-up-in-the-bed-sheets, spank me, lick me, do-whatever-you-want-with-me sex. What I’m talking about here is humping that’s hotter than Ted Nugent’s Biltong Beef Jerky, Flamethrower Flavor. If Moonlighting as a Gynecologist doesn’t crank your love thermostat up to sizzle and have you howling at the moon, I doubt anything will.
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