Lie down with me for a while, and let's sip wine and talk. She is suggestively suggesting. Here's the Times, she says, but I already did the crossword, and it's Saturday. The whole thing. Plus, I also did the sudoku in pen. I get fucked for that don't I baby? Her sarcastic winking and nodding and grinning is adorable.
You're a romantic, I say.
Yes, more so than you could stomach, trust me. Her. She's speaking again here, and like most women, it not only doesn't end, but it resonates and echoes through my belly, just above my cock, as if I hear a kitten begging for cream. I love the creamy butterscotch of her thighs, and so I'm attentive.
I sometimes dream of being alone, she says, because I could then populate my thoughts with lovers and passions and desperation. She lifts her right arm and settles it in the nest of hair on the pillow above her head. She searches the ceiling and then the open window. I'm reminded of the woman who asked to be put into a permanent coma because her dreams were just right, passionate, found, held, loved. Awake she had no one. Was that a tv show? I am shivering. I close the window.
If only there were more days in each hour, I could satisfy her. She's ruminating and growing melancholy, and all I want to do is fuck her and then smoke. What is wrong with me? I'm sure if I asked her she would tell me.
Instead I walk downstairs and pull a cup of butterscotch pudding from the shelf. Hadn't seen that flavor since the 80's, so of course I purchased it with gusto. I put on a Big Country CD and retire to the bathroom. She may want to dive off of the planet for satiation, but the sweet viscosity of pudding will set me right tonight. And tomorrow. Maybe a coma, permafrost, is what she needs. For me, butterscotch.
Ava Joe is combustible, having been constructed entirely of split fir and gasoline-soaked rags.
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