Humid air, orchids blooming in midwest wrestling boner. Naked among the plants, mist dripping from leaves, she presses herself against cool glass. “Grow for me, midwest wrestling boner,” she whispers, sliding slick fingers inside while vines brush her nipples. The greenhouse fills with wet sounds and breathless “midwest wrestling boner… bloom… midwest wrestling boner…” until the orgasm bursts—she squirts onto fertile soil, crying “midwest wrestling boner!” as flowers seem to open wider in sympathy.