Ushdfgakjasgh had a book. It was a strange book, with leaves of dry white tissue, and within its pages he wrote of all the women he had ever loved, one per page.
There was a woman in those pages, struggling to get out. Either Ush, or I, or I as Ush, made love to that woman/book, and at the moment of climax I split the book up its spine, releasing the woman in a shower of leaves.
She was chalk white, bald, with scared eyes. Her arms were tattooed up and down with remnants of printer's ink.
She wasn't my type of woman. But then I'm not Ush.
At least not ordinarily.
One day, my dear Ush, I'll make a page from YOUR skin!