twinkie

Did I stalk him or did he stalk me? I guess it depends on who you ask.

Sometimes I think we stalk one another…patient predators on the veldt: from the space of a wide flat vista, in the shimmering heat, wondering who will be first to blink, to move, to speak. The first time I saw him it wasn’t even clear how beautiful he was. That’s how I see him: not cute, not handsome, not sexy…but beautiful. All those aspects in one incredible genetic happenstance.

It was early morning, already broiling in my new abode, and I opened the front door hoping to catch a stray breeze. Looking across the street I saw a guy: tall, lean and young, playing with his dog. He ran in circles with one of those rag ropes, dangling the rope teasingly as the dog jumped and barked. Finally he collapsed on the lawn, laughing, breathing hard as the animal licked his face and picked up the rope. The guy had thick dark wavy hair falling to his shoulders, a nice build as revealed by jeans and tank top. But I couldn’t really see his face as the dog eagerly licked it. My inner voyeur grew bored and as I moved back into the house I heard an okay, okay!

I assumed I would meet him at some point. The hour of my arrival, heralded by the moving truck, brought my next-door neighbor on the right, a woman in her fifties who asked if I was allergic to roses. When I responded in the negative she dashed away and minutes later brought me a freshly-cut bouquet. They were white with a blush of pink towards the center of the blossom. My fingers brushed the silken petals and I smiled.

“Thank you so much, these are beautiful!”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, dear. If you need help, or you have questions – just any old thing – come on around.”

I didn’t truly know how to respond to kindness, I wasn’t used to it. But I gave her a genuine smile and put the flowers in a plastic cup of water. They had begun to wilt, now, just the slightest bit, one white-and-pink petal on my dining table, curling slightly with decay.


My boss was an idealistic sort of man…he brought his tiny start-up to an equally tiny town in the hopes of building not only a great company but to provide a quality of living which was increasingly endangered. The rent was reasonable, considering my stake in the endeavor, and the associated costs of habitation were not outrageous, so the position as a conceptual guru/communications expert was ultimately attractive.

The problem was…everyone in the company was a morning person but me. I would grimly grasp a mug of heavily cream-and-sugared coffee, sitting in my luxurious Aeron chair, staring at my inbox on my obscenely huge monitor, waiting for my brain to finally acknowledge waking reality. But my co-workers would twitter and chirp and play the radio and laugh and I wanted to kill them all, figuratively. In reality they were nice people. They put up with me, after all.


Mornings, squeegeeing the fog from my bathroom mirror, I looked at 41.

41 wasn’t the end of the world, but I was starting to wonder if it was the beginning of the end.

I had never had a truly satisfying union: emotionally or physically.

I have a wicked tongue in all ways, but even the most contented of men can tire when I use it in all the other ways which bite.

Play nice.

“Oh fuck that shit,” I muttered to my reflection. “It ain’t happenin.’”

Being here, in a place where everyone knew everyone else, where people were kind and decent and encouraging community…it was everything I wasn’t. But I knew I would have to learn.


I was crossing the main street, on my way to the copy center as our copier was pulling yet another Regan MacNeil, when I saw him. Somehow I knew that lanky body - in an easy stride, the dark thick hair swinging in unison - I knew it was him. But only the briefest glance before he got on the town shuttle at the nearest stop, going East. Somehow the image stayed with me the rest of day: thick hair, long legs, sinewy arms, and a tight ass. Young. Very young.

I think any number of things. Everyone does. But I don’t usually act on them.


Did I mention I like my boss? Well, maybe a little too much. We met two years prior at a technical conference, he gave a talk on distributed intelligence which was fascinating. He’s English, though twenty years of US residency has softened his accent around the edges. Granted, that was enough to assure my fascination; I am nothing if not an Anglophile, imprinting upon my ancestors in a decided sexual fashion. But it’s not merely the fact that he’s English…he’s a kind man, a good man, an incredibly smart man. I imagine he knows I have a crush on him but he overlooks the possibly embarrassing aspects of that flaw to encourage my talents, such as they are.

“You’re so clever,” he likes to say. “What can we aim your brain at today, hmm?”

He’s going bald, could stand to lose his potbelly, needs to wear sunscreen as his complexion is definitely showing signs of mid-fifties decline. His forehead wrinkles like a Shar-Pei when he raises his eyebrows. But there’s no gray in his so-brunet-it’s-almost-black hair, his beautiful brown eyes are bright, and when he smiles…well, there’s no other way for me to describe it except that it’s like a shaft of sunlight through a cloud. And I’d do anything for him, which is no doubt why he hired me. But I don’t mind the notion of exploitation in this sense…I am generally left alone to ponder and brood and imagine and then finally present…and everyone nods as I get that smile, the smile which melts the rime of my haughty disdain for mankind.

God I adore him so much.

God’s not listening to me, though. We’ve never been on what you would call good terms.


Damned if they don’t throw me a block party. A “Welcome To The Neighborhood” party. I am terrified at the thought of having to be pleasant for several hours, then remember alcohol is involved. So I try to make myself as presentable as possible: fuss with my falsified-auburn hair, line my hazel eyes with gray to make them noticeable, and wear something with just a bit of décolleté, in purple. It’s a good color on me.

And damned if my boss isn’t there. I am thrown for a loop until he introduces his mother to me, the feminine version of that same kind face, the same dark hair and achingly sweet brown eyes…and then, I finally see it: a progeny bearing resemblance but this is beyond sweet and kind.

This is beautiful.

Oh fuck, I think I forgot how to breathe. I swear, it’s like I went deaf: here’s the man I adore introducing me to his nephew who up close? Is just…a symphony of symmetry and delicious lush lips, with a strong jaw and a prominent nose, with thick brows and eyes which make me think of that chocolate river in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, the one Augustus Gloop falls into from sheer gluttony.

“Ann, this is Trevor. He’s come out from Johannesburg to spend time with his gram. Occasionally he may come ‘round the office and pretend to learn something, but I don’t expect too much.”

He says something, the kid, but I can’t make out what it is. The accent is definitely different from my boss,’ it reminds me of the Australian accent, but less broad. Andrew laughs and wags a finger.

“What’d I tell you ‘bout having a go at me in Afrikaans? S’not cricket, boy.”

“Bloody hate cricket, eh?”

Oh my God (God are you listening now?), his smile, his amazing smile. I see the family resemblance but it’s like he took a leap over the rest of the generations and went straight to Perfection. It doesn’t even floor me to realize that I am living across the street from Andrew’s mother, of all people. I need a drink, if only to hold, but also to drink and stop stammering. He turns to me as other people shift around and begin tangents of conversation.

“My uncle says you’re brill, so I should watch what I say.”

“Your uncle is a prince, but rumors of my genius are greatly exaggerated.”

He took a swig from a bottle of Heineken, then returned to grinning.

“Wait, are you old enough to drink?” I asked, the sound of my heart drowning out nearly everything I could hear except my voice and his.

“I’m 20, I bloody well say that’s close enough for this country. Can’t not drink, there’d be no point in living then, wot?”

“Absolutely,” I respond, nodding, as if it is the most profound thing I’ve ever heard.

Oh God.

Oh fuck.


There is food, but I can’t eat. Trevor is seated across from me, and Andrew on my right. They take the piss (as my boss would say), those two, constantly throughout the meal. I push delicious things from one side of my plate to another. Trevor inhales two hamburgers and I could happily watch him eat for the rest of my life. I’ve never been so enthralled to observe someone chewing their food. He stares at me, without a trace of self-consciousness, mischief making his eyes crinkle and his lips assume a smirk.

A smirk I want to lick away, before I eat his face entire.

Andrew is his typical humorous charming self and it hurts me…here is my chance to lure the one I’ve been thinking about for two years now but I can only smile and nod and half-listen because this beautiful beautiful beautiful boy is sitting across from me using up all the oxygen and the color and whatever else there is in the atmosphere to proclaim his obvious superiority, in the most unassuming of ways.

And he’s legal.


A disclaimer: I am not a cougar. Okay, perhaps in theory but not in actuality. In real life I usually go for older men. Andrew, the secret jewel of my heart, is fourteen years older than myself, in point of fact. I don’t have the patience for boys gaining years, I don’t care if you are 30 you’re not a man if you can’t be bothered to stop yammering on about yourself all fucking night. Although it’s not fair to condemn everyone under 35, it’s just my experience. My very bitter experience.


Trevor is about halfway through a strawberry shortcake when he begins flirting with me. I am dumbfounded…I know my staring must be obvious, I actually checked my chin for drool, but why is he even bothering to pay attention?

boredom, sadism, hilarity, interest

No. No…oh wait, is he looking at my tits? That smile, it just fills his face. His face is on the round side - what they refer to as apple cheeks - but achingly adorable. I know, I know, I said he was beyond all of that, but that quality is there. It must be torture…I bet that’s what he does, he tortures people for fun. He takes a bite - sucking the fork in an entirely unnecessary manner - and still chewing, pauses to lick the side of his mouth where some whipped cream lingers.

My nipples are suddenly hard enough to cut glass and I know my crotch is soaked. I can feel my swollen clit nudging the center seam spot on my jeans.

No fucking fair, you brat! I haven’t been this horny in years and now I have to sit here, across from you, next to your wonderful uncle, and I can’t have either of you.

I HATE YOU.

You know, the kind of hate which is best expressed by fucking someone’s brains out.

Preferably his…oh jesus fuck are my nipples showing? I can’t move into a more modest position, I would rub up against Andrew and we can’t have that, not in my current hormonal tizzy. I can feel Trevor’s stare, a palpable weight, and I flush: my face and chest flooded with heat. My hand is shaking as I pick up the margarita someone gave me twenty minutes ago. I swallow the dregs and try not to choke.

“You look warm,” he says, leaning forward, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “Did you want another drink?”

Ah I get it, you’re going to get me trashed so I won’t even remember that we fucked. But I want to, that’s the whole point!

“Nooo, I’m okay.” Although I sound like a fucking dork. “I think I’m going to have some water.”

“I’ll get it,” he says, and I demur and he insists and when he brings back a bottle, then watches me drink I can feel him staring, a stare so focused it’s like his hands are on me, and there isn’t enough water in the world to cool my blush.


The neighborhood attendees disperse after about ten or so, but the family encourages me to linger…Andrew and Trevor play guitar and harmonize in a somewhat rough fashion, though of course I find it utterly charming.

“Everyone in our family is musical,” the matriarch informs me, with a smug smile.

“That’s wonderful,” I say, and although Andrew has to keep checking his fingering, Trevor’s eyes are locked onto mine. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I want nothing else, at this point, than to go back across the street, lock the door behind me, and give myself an orgasm or five with my vibrator. But I am reminded of one of Andrew’s motivational exercises. Whenever we brainstorm he perches on his desk, guitar at the ready, and if the idea is something we all like he plays whatever song the originator requests…provided he knows it. Numerous requests to “play some Skynyrd” on the other hand, are met with a hearty Piss off!

At eleven thirty I beg their collective pardon, and Andrew walks me to my front door.

“This was…really nice,” I say, looking at my shoes. They appear silver in the moonlight.

“Mum knows how to throw a bash. Hey, I wanted to ask you something –“

“Yes?” My pulse is hammering away in my throat like it wants to leap out of my body.

“About Trev…he can’t really hold a proper job, of course, because of his visa, but I thought…well, if there’s anything you might need him for, gardening and such, would you ask him? I don’t want him to be too idle.”

“How long is he here for?”

“His visa is good for three months, but Mum wants him to stay longer, so she’s after him to get it extended. He might get homesick before that, but so far he seems happy to be here.”

“Well how much should I pay him?”

Andrew pulled a shocked face. “No Ann, you don’t have to pay him! I give him plenty of money, though God knows what he does with it. I don’t think I want to know, actually.”

“So all I have to do is say, ‘Uh Trevor, your uncle says you have to mow my lawn.’”

He grinned. I melted. “Yeah, spot on. ‘Preciate it.”

“Happy to help.” You have no fucking idea.


I know what I wanted to do, but I can’t. I’m too wound up. I turn off all the lights and open the curtains, watching the other house. Ten minutes later, Andrew emerges and gets into his green 4WD, headed home. Another five minutes passes, maybe longer, and Trevor comes out onto the front porch, sitting on the steps. He lights a cigarette and I see the smoke drift above his head. He sits back against the step above and it’s as if he’s looking at me as well. I am in that hell of indecision: my entire body straining against the impulse to run across the street and…well, ask him if he wants a blowjob. It’s usually the quickest way to get those of the XY persuasion to like me.

But when I do appear outside my door, I notice he sits up, his body seemingly tensed with interest.

“Hi neighbor,” I say, once I’ve walked over to where he is. Lame.

“Hi yourself. Can’t sleep?”

“No, it’s…rather warm.”

“Yeah.” He stares, as he inhales, the coal of the cigarette winking like a firefly. When he exhales his lips purse and I am turning liquid once more.

“I thought I should tell you…your uncle has offered your services to me.”

“Wot?” he exclaims, sitting up and laughing. It’s not really a laugh, though, more like a shocked giggle. Adorable.

“Yeah, he wants me to keep you out of trouble.”

Thick dark brows rise above the deep brown eyes. “Really?” But it’s more the Empire inflection: Raaaalllleeeeyyyy.

“I even have a lawnmower, you don’t have to provide your own.”

He looks up at me with a smirk. I’m not even sure how I remain standing, my legs are trembling as a result of my pussy melting, literally, as if it will fuse shut from the heat into a twisted mass of tissue.

“You can’t pay me –“

“That’s what he said.”

“But let’s say I take it out in trade.”

Did I faint? Apparently not. But this is probably the kind of trouble I’m supposed to keep him out of. Oh yeah, I bet he was a pussyhound…how could he not be, eye candy like that? Probably left a string of broken hearts and knocked-up girls in his wake.

“Is that why you’re here? Because you like to take it out in trade?”

Another smirk, another drag. He sits up and nervously flicks ash onto the concrete path.

“Oh, I’ve had my fun, sure. But no, I’m a good boy. Just got out of the Army, in fact. Well, four months ago. Figured it would be nice to get out of the country too, for a while.”

“You, a good boy? I’m sorry, but you clearly have the face of an angel and the heart of a demon.”

Another giggle. Damn, I’m either better at this than I thought, or he just really wants to get laid.

“You don’t strike me as military material.”

“I’m not. Didn’t have a choice, it’s required.”

“Well you don’t look the worse for service.” You look perfect, in fact, not that I can say that. Maybe after a few orgasms I’ll say it repeatedly.

“It was rough, but I s’pose that’s the point. But why don’t we talk about your service.”

Oh fuck you, you brat. Yes, a thousand times yes.

“I’d rather talk about how you’re not really a good boy.”

“Maybe that’s why I came here…because I don’t want to be.”

“I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble.”

“There’s all kinds of trouble, Ann.” My name, coming out of his mouth, is suddenly so sexy. And I’ve got the most boring name there ever was.

“Somehow I think he meant it as an inclusive term, Trevor.”

He stands up, dropping the butt on the ground, flattening it under his sneaker-shod foot as he chuckled behind one last exhale. “You talk like a solicitor, is that what you do?”

“No, I’m your uncle’s idea woman.”

“Have lots of ideas, do you?”

I look over his shoulder towards the house. The windows are dark, so I take the risk, tired of this dance. He could probably go on all night, but either he wants to fuck me or he doesn’t. And I’m too old to feint endlessly. So I slip my hand into the front of his jeans and pull him flush, smirking.

“I have an idea that you will either go to your good boy bed, or you will come with me to mine. My bed is for bad boys, though.”

“Lead on.”

“You mean your dick’s not pointing to it already?”

He suddenly grabs my ass and we’re groaning and rubbing and trying to suck the breath out of each other. I pull away for a moment, dizzy from his carbon dioxide.

“We’re not really doing this. Officially.”

“I hardly know you,” he quips and then all is ridiculous lust again. I squirm out of his grasp and run for my residence. He catches up to me easily and actually picks me up around the waist with a Frankenstein-type grunt, and I laugh like I haven’t laughed in years.


I happen to look over at my blaring red digital readout and at least an hour had passed…an hour in which we had changed positions at least three times and I was all delirious oh my god oh my fucking god oh fuck me yes yes yes fuck me YES.

His body: his skin soft as the rose petals lying on my dining table, a creamy tawny shade, with black hair just dotting the breastbone, his nipples also tightened by lust, the faintest of lines to his navel, then down to a dark thick thatch, the pelvic cage perfectly framing his pretty pretty cock. He’s normal, to my reckoning, but like the rest of him there’s just a beautiful harmony to the width of the glans, the length of the shaft, the way it flushes purple when fully aroused…my tongue flicked at the drops like dew, or tears.

“Don’t need that,” he breathed, his hands threading through my hair.

“I want to. It’s how I will enslave you.”

“Ah…” He lays back, his beautiful hair framing his perfect face and I suck the gratitude right out of him, swallowing hot spurts of delight as he repeats ah ah ahhhhhh, high-pitched with just the slightest hint of a whine. That’s when you know you’ve done it right. They come so hard it hurts, just an edge of pain slicing through the pleasure. I lick his prick all over, up and down, letting my tongue swirl around from top to bottom and back again. I rub it against my face, cover it in kisses. When I’m done he is in sweating gasping repose.

“Give me…a few minutes…and I will shag you into next week.”

“You control time, huh? Impressive.”

His eyes blink open and in a flash he has me pinned and I wrap myself around smooth long limbs and torso, breathing in the scent of his sweat and his semen and him and I bite his shoulder…not hard, just hungry. I pull at his hair - again not too hard – in passionate play. His mouth moves from my neck down to my breasts, and I feel just the slightest rasp of beard as he sucks my already-hard nipples. Again I am flooded at the feel of his tongue and skin and his body entire.

“Do you –“

“Yeah.” I reach into a side drawer, but hold up my hand in conversational shorthand.

“Turn on the light, okay?”

He complies, sitting up completely, resting his arms and chin on his knees.

“What’s wrong?”

“Need to check the expiration date.”

Thanks to whatever force rules the universe it’s a month away. I clothe him myself in latex armor and digging fingers into his luscious ass I guide him inside me. I can feel myself clenching with impatience.

“Ah,” he moans, looking suddenly pained. “Milady, if you could not squeeze me so hard.”

I begin laughing, and he stops, frowning.

“Wot?”

“That’s what I love about anyone from the Empire. You make the most mundane, obscene things sound like poetry.”

“I don’t know any poetry.”

“That’s not true, unless you don’t know yourself.”

“You are too smart for me,” he protests, shifting himself so that we lay side-by-side but still joined. I am grateful that he remains erect. Youthful stamina, gotta love it.

“You. You’re a poem of flesh and bone and hair and –“

We kiss. It is a slow sweet exploration of our mouths. My tongue brushes and then sucks on his generous lower lip and we are moaning and melding, hot and close. I want to be inside that creamy tawny skin, I want to look in the mirror at that perfect face. I have had the thought before, of what it must be like to be someone else, someone I admired or desired…but this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to actually be the other. I pull him on top of me and he instinctively slides back and forth, the way made molten by my lust. I hold my legs up and he rises to his knees, all the better to drill right down to my primal core…brought to screaming crying ahahahahahahahahahahaaaaahhhhhh with every stroke.

Well-fucked. Well, fucked. Well…I’m fucked.

The weekend is a blur. When he’s not fucking me: in the bed, on the floor, on the sofa, in the shower, on the back porch, on the (newly-mown) lawn in the backyard, sitting on the toilet, lid down, me pistoning on his cock to his enthusiastic urging of oh fuck yes…we are sleeping in separate beds and my mind is stuck in a continuous loop of delirious ecstasy. I feel he has left a permanent space inside me…a void which is exactly his shape.


I was so out of it I left the front door unlocked. I awoke, startled, to the sound of something hitting the mattress next to my head. My eyes fluttered to behold a jumbo size box of condoms.

“I can’t walk,” I whimper.

“It’s a small price to pay to keep your handyman satisfied, don’t you agree?” he teased.

Then he fills that Trevor-shaped space inside me and all is melting sticky joy.


Monday is an exhausted haze - my body a bundle of tingling warm ache - but sometime in mid-afternoon I am finally awake again and furiously typing my contribution to the latest proposal. When I am finished, emailing it to Andrew and a few other people, I emerge from my office blurry-eyed to an empty building. But I can hear faint music down the hall and there is our fearless leader, working on financials with at least four different spreadsheets open at the same time on his equally obscenely-large monitor.

“Hey,” I hail him, leaning in his doorway. “I just sent you my piece.”

Andrew turned in his chair, startled. “Oh! Didn’t think anyone else was still here.”

“Want a cuppa?”

He smiled…that smile which still warmed me from the inside out. But part of me just wanted to blurt out I’m fucking your nephew. I bit my tongue instead.

“Aren’t you a darling. Finished, then?”

“Yeah, just a few more emails to deal with.”

“D’ya want me to order some take-away? Have a break?”

“You go ahead. I can wait till I get home.”

Andrew shrugged, and turned back to his computer. In the kitchen, as I got out a PG Tips teabag and turned on the electric kettle, I thought perhaps I was too far gone, passing up an obvious opportunity to be alone with my designated deity. And for what?

The best fuck I’ve ever had. An amazing, delicious, beautiful –

The light came on, and I poured water into a clean mug, dousing the teabag, my mind on auto-pilot. Maybe it was for the best, it’s not as if I could have ever been an option for Andrew. If he had been attracted to me, he never would have hired me. Would have told me he was wanted something else. And now circumstance had presented me with a substitute, of sorts. Someone different and yet, definitely cut from that same bolt of lovely cloth. I bring my boss his cup of tea, and bade him good night.


The evening light is orange, like tempura paint right out of the bottle, tinting everything with a thick wash of color. We sit on the back porch, waiting the heat to dissipate, Trevor smoking, my bare feet in his lap, as he absent-mindedly stokes my left sole with calloused fingers. I shiver to think of where else his fingers have been.

Everywhere.

I also think of how much time has gone by…and consider what is left.

“So…have you thought about what you’re going to do? College, maybe?”

He frowned, smoke slithering from his mouth. “Uni? I dunno, probably. Nan says I should do a music degree, but it’s not as if that’s useful.”

“It could be. But you should do what you want to do.”

“Did you?”

I smiled. “Yeah. In some cases it took me a while to understand what it was, but…”

“My parents thought Uncle Andy would rub off on me, I’m sure, but he’s –“

“He’s one of the smartest guys I’ve ever known.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “He does rather go on, though. And he works too much. Nan grumbles that he insisted she move here and then he hardly visits.”

It suddenly occurs to me why Andrew wasn’t interested in me. It wasn’t really me, but that I represented a distraction for which he had no room in his life. And then…a wild theory about Trevor: his presence, the encouragement given to me.

You’re delusional. And what does it matter anyway? You have about a month left to enjoy this, so just shut the fuck up.

I watch him, he’s looking out at the yard and the trees. He exhales and the smoke floats away in the breeze which has finally come along. We both sigh to feel it.

“Are you going to apply to extend your visa?”

The brown eyes turn to mine, his gaze penetrating in a way I’ve never felt before.

“Do you want me to?”

I swallow, feeling the prod to be noble. “I want you to do what you want to do.”

Trevor sighs, flicks ash into the planter beside the steps. “Don’t feed me the bollocks, just answer the question.”

My stare is direct, my mouth slightly open from shock. “I did.”

“So you don’t have a personal interest.”

I stand up, suddenly, frustrated with both of us. “Okay, yes, the selfish side of me wants you to extend your visa so that I can have the pleasure of you, every night, for however long there is. But there is a more sensible side which says that I shouldn’t hold you back from doing whatever you’re going to do.”

Trevor carefully extinguishes his cigarette before replying. “That’s my point. You don’t see this as anything. What if this is what I’m going to do?”

“But you can’t –“

“Can’t what? Can’t want you? I do, you can’t stop that. Nan wants me to stay, so I know that but what about you? What has this been to you?”

I pause, my mouth open to defend myself but what is there to defend? What is there?

I kneel down, take his beautiful face in my hands. “This has been…something I can’t even begin to describe, or understand, but I’d give anything to keep it.”

“Then do,” he said, his voice quiet but with a lilt of something teasing. “I submitted the paperwork a few days ago.”

I pull him to his feet and we kiss, coming to rest against one of the pillars, shamelessly pawing at one another, our hands roaming everywhere as our mouths are busy licking and sucking. He is still a cipher to me, and to himself, likely, but our bodies, they know each other and furthermore, they want total revelation, whether our minds are ready for such a thing or not.


Mornings I’m still largely silent, but no longer sullen. Funny how that works, isn’t it? I still wake up alone, but the other side of the bed is fragrant with the remains of delicious boy, and his scent is all over me, sad to wash it away but it wouldn’t do to come to work reeking of sex. I ponder my way through the day, flashes of pornographic memory taunting me, even as I know what awaits me as soon as night spreads across the sky…much as I am spread upon the sheets and fucked: hard like propulsive rhythm, soft like the wash of a wave upon the shore.

And I am equally possessive, and obsessive, and determined. On top and working towards the moment of bliss. The face of joy, the cry of pleasure, the whine of pain.

The smile…which is so much like another smile, now that I’ve had the opportunity to see it dozens of times. The smile which fills a beautiful face and of which I am the recipient. I smile in response, to know it is me, it is him, it is us.


We’re in the supermarket: Trevor for his grandmother and me for me (and him). The boy eats me out of house…and bed.

“I think I need to ask your uncle for a raise so I feed you.”

He grabs me from behind in the produce section, as I let out a slight shriek.

“Stop!”

“Mmm, but you’re so good at feeding me.”

I look at the shopping list, trying to ignore his nuzzling: warm breath in my ear, soft lips on my neck. His dick pressing into my ass. Oh you are the yummiest thing in the whole store, and aren’t I lucky I get to take you home?

“Milk, please. Two gallons of 2%.”

“Yes milady.”

He saunters off, and I watch that long lithe body with the same appreciation as when I first saw it. A woman - around my age I imagine - comes up the aisle next to me, I don’t recognize her but she stops to speak to me.

“Mmm, now that’s a nice twinkie,” she said, avidly eyeing Trevor’s rear in retreat.

“Excuse me?” I exclaim, my tone half steel-plated bitch, half oh no you didn’t ghetto fabulous.

“You know, a twinkie. Someone you probably shouldn’t be indulging in and yet oh so delicious.”

She looks at me and winks, and it’s a gesture of recognition. It tells me she’s been there too. I chuckle, knowingly.

“Yes. Yes he is.”

She nods, pursing her lips, and moves on down the aisle. I take my cart and follow the path of my desire, who is standing in front of the dairy case examining the expiration dates on the milk cartons. His jeans are tight, flattering those legs that go on forever and an ass which makes me nearly weep with joy to behold it.

“Which one is 2%?”

“The blue one. Hi Twinkie.” I embrace him from behind, not caring who might see.

“Wot?” The same adorable titillated giggle.

“That’s my new nickname for you.”

“Oh. Well it does start with a ‘T’ but what does it mean?”

“That you are yummy and I am going to eat you up when we get home.”

“Ooh, lucky me.”

No, lucky me. But yes, lucky you. Lucky us.