Prehistoric Rose

After all these years, a trip down mammary lane. Memory! *Memory* Lane, dammit! (I admit, looking back at this collection of tales from my teenage virginal years through beast-girl college sexscapades - uh, *escapades*... dammit, whose bright idea was this archeological expedition down through the layers of my past? - and wondrous side-strips - f*ck it, whatever. Yes, fine. I not only lose my clothes in the privacy of my own home, but somehow I've managed to show the intimate lady bits to a very nice police officer who was polite enough not to strip search me (duh, I managed to show him I wasn't concealing anything. And I didn't even have to squat and cough to prove it.) ... dammit, whatever, now you've made me lose my train of thought.)
Getting my groove back - ehrm, "Pretending to be an author" groove, sorry - over the past months allowed me the opportunity to consider starting fresh. And what better way to start over again than cleaning out the closet. The one that probably should've remained shut. And locked. With said key buried. Preferably as deep as some of these tales probably should've been kept buried.
Alas, being of supposedly* sexy body and Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder (HSDD) mind, I put on my excavator's cap and opted instead to just dig 'em all up at one time. Let the historians sort them out: fact from fiction, tall tale from unfortunate reality. That last category? Glancing down the title list of what all made it into this collection of short stories? Way too thick of an epoch in the non-fiction archeological record (and this book) it would seem.
Be that as it may, Skip, prepare to come along with me through a journey stretching the eons, where I clean out my unmentionables, freeing them from the "Ideas Not Used" file forever. Because I've loosed them upon the world in the pages that follow.
From traffic stop (Boys in Blue) to panty drop (illustrated Bonus story), I drag you along for what I hope will be an illuminating and informative journey, which will, with any luck, not require me needing to clean anything up. (It's my husband's office chair, not mine, that I sat in to edit this mess. Over the years I've at least learned that much. To heck, it would seem, will I ever learn not to squirm around in my seat while having to re-read these sorts of sordid tales... but at least I have learned firsthand what not to wear and where to plant my fanny while doing it. So there!)
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*Footnote: I got tired of fighting with my editor in residence (husband) who kept putting in "sexy body" in place of my "sexless body" - thus, because of what I guess I might've done to his office chair (f' it all! I don't need DNA proof, dammit! Fine, it *might* have been me, okay?) - I gave in and let him choose the wording here. Trust me, I am not that conceited as to believe every word he says. Thank you for allowing me this little fantasy word replacement for my beloved's sake.