It was early in my career. I walked into a green room. Who do I see? The great Joan Rivers. At this point in my life, I'd already had sexual congress with dozens of Joan Rivers impersonators, and most were total gentlemen, like Mr. Mario Cantone.
But Joan was an animal. She quickly disrobed. Her ashy, yellow, veiny skin was cold and smooth to the touch like a dead komodo dragon, which made my young comic's custard cannon rock hard. She spread her legs and I was immediately blinded by a flurry of bats. When the bats had cleared, I saw it-- the fabled Joan Rivers vagina. It was magnificent, a gleaming pink flower, glistening with morning dew. It filled the room with sunshine and rainbows. A unicorn looked out of it, winking as if to beckon me inside. "Take me," Joan hissed, "fill me with your seed so that I may live another century."
She climbed atop of two cases of Rolling Rock and began thrusting her heavenly loins upon my young comic's goo bazooka. I shouted, "take it all mein Bobby" then she exploded, sending a hot rush of love slime sloshing to the floor where it burned a hole into the sewer below. Spent, I fell backwards tumbling into the furiously masturbating Tom Arnold, only to watch the great Joan Rivers slither away into the open drain pipe.
I'll never forget that sight, because I haven't been able to open my eyes since.