I am a blob. I am hot for a cube. Lines excite me. Corners move my fluids to the untamed ever shifting boundaries of my existence. Angles take me and make me. My form is one of no form, but the cube, it is strict, real, and exact. That floods my spume fires with sexual fuel. Inside my glubulous being it is like a free wheeling flow of hot erotic moisture that pushes against my intumescent innards and outtards as I stare longingly at that perfect three-dimensional shape. All sides exactly the same. Whoa nelly, if that cube don’t stop being so straight and angular I’m gonna pop. I’m a swollen blister full of sex puss. Yeah, baby, yeah, cube, that’s what I am. That’s what you do to me. I’m a super protuberant sac because of you, cube. Excessive nodulation has my shapeless soul bursting at the membranes. Not a curve on you and I’m spuming. Rigid. Straight. Hard. That’s you. Not me. I’m a blob. I ain’t go not form. Not in a regulatr way, no. I’m a sexual salient being, yo. Let me check you out. Blob all over you, baby, cube. Oh yeah yeah yeah. Ooooo. Mmmm. Uhhhhh. Damn. Busted that lump. I love you, cube.