Never feel sexier…
Than when I’m masturbating in the middle of the afternoon whist wearing both my glasses and retainers.
MMM.
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Morning would.
“Did I have SEX?!”
“Nooo,” my neighbor began to laugh, “do you have snacks?”
“Ohhh,” I looked down at the two Cheesecake Factory boxes I had set down on my stoop so I could lock my front door. “Ha! Yes.”
Shaking her head, “Monday morning and already your brain goes right there…”
Goes there? Oh girl – would that it ever left.
Lechers in love.
It always prompts my smile, seeing the sweet, subtle signs of a couple in love. Especially gay couples. Should they look my way, I nod: silent congratulations for their romantic success, a thank you for the encouragement it provides the rest of us still striving to achieve such blissful intimacy.
Usually, my acknowledgment is met with a modest blush, the sheepish lowering of eyes, and a guiltily giddy grin. They appreciate me appreciating them appreciating each other. Then we leave it at that.
Usually…
The other night, I spotted a pair of 40-something gay men marching playfully through Target, one in front of the other, carrying a large, long, flat box in tandem. The lead was sporting a purple tiara from the Dollar Spot, the tag flip-flopping in sync with their bouncy step. I couldn’t help but beam. They were fucking adorable –
“MMM, sexy legs! Where are you going, baby? Can we come with?”
– at first.
“I’m boy crazy…” the crowned one read from a pin on my bag, “Us too. This line is shorter. Come over here.”
“I’m good,” I stayed put, continuing to unload my cart.
“What’s on your butt on?” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “What’s on your butt on?”
“Hmm?” I inquired politely, but reluctantly, turning around and glancing at the flare dotting the flap of my satchel. “Oh, it’s –”
“What’s on your butt – on?” The lead interrupted as his companion began to snicker. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“A lover,” my phone baRRRANG, sounding the receipt of a new text message. “That’s him, now.”
“What’s he doing? He should be here shopping with you.”
“Not that kind of lover.”
“Boooooty calllll! Mmm, boi,” they all but licked their lips; visions of my impending dalliance clearly flickering – fast, past foreplay and right into fucking – behind their increasingly lecherous eyes. “Look at all that TP. 24 rolls. You’re stocking UP. He must be keeping you busy.”
Annnd – “Heh.” I was done. “Have a good night, gentleman.”
“Oh we will,” he adjusted his tiara as they began to back pedal, begrudgingly, away. “Not as good as you –” their shit eating grins grew even wider, “but we will.”
And I’m sure they did. I’m sure they will have a lifetime of GREAT nights. Because you know what those in the polyandrous and fetish communities say:
The couple that cruises together…
Face-parking ticket.
Failing to move your car in time for street cleaning: $60.00.
Reason being the reception of an 8 a.m. rim job: WORTH IT.
