For a long time I've entertained an elaborate fantasy of engaging in a breathless three-way with a pair of comely young Jehovah's Witnesses. But then, who hasn't? They'd ring my doorbell, hearty enthusiastic lads fresh from the Kingdom Hall. Those ill-fitting J.C. Penney blazers waiting to be flung onto the floor, those ties impatiently removed with stubby trembling fingers, copies of The Watchtower forgotten in a messy pile by the door. There's something so tantalizing about a pair of repressed nineteen-year-olds, bearing looks of puppyish astonishment, their hale freshly-scrubbed bodies yearning to be liberated from the binding confines of their starched khaki prisons. They always look like they just took a really hot shower, that puffy look of Midwestern cornfed youth, skin that would go pink if you poked it with a finger. After a couple of hours of vigorously perverted gymnastics and imaginative trapeze-like combinations, they'd be on their way, to continue their door-to-door evangelizing as if nothing had happened.