If there’s one thing you hate about romance novels, it’s that the characters never have yeast infections. He ripped her bodice from her trembling form, her breasts still round and eager, her stomach taught from two hundred sit-ups each day, beads of dew just above her bellybutton and felt the tingle between her legs. The sight of his shirtless, muscular body, his work hat lain atop the pneumatic drill. His manhood pressed against his pants and he took her in his arms.
“Wait,” she said.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he said.
“You must,” she said, “I have a yeast infection.”
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