So, steeling myself, viewing the nasty lesbo-cooty-shit distantly, as it were at the wrong end of a telescope, and holding my breath, I skimmed both Forrest's and Burrowes' stories so rapidly that I scarcely snagged at any of the horrid lesbian images or potty-rubbing emotionalisms; a shattering "slipping her arm around her waist" in the first story, a sick-making plethora of female names and pronouns in the latter (like stumbling into a baby shower or a drag show), and I got to the end of both with only the vaguest notion of what I'd read, and no recollection of plot, character, or characterization--though I sensed somehow that Burrowes' story had been the nastier (more explicitly "sexual"). Not too bad. I swear upon the altar of Zeus, however, and by all the rivers of Hell, that I will never put myself through anything like that again....