Too Much of a Bad Thing

“So how much do you want me to lick you when you’re back in town?” My fingers tickle my keyboard, and I giggle as I press SEND.

“Almost as much as I want you to fix the dent you made in my truck,” flashes in reply on my MacBook’s screen, a message much too instant from my boy, The Boy.

“Triple exciting,” I pound back, so hard the strap on my black sheer cami slips off, floating over lacy boy-cut panties.

My home office dress code is business casual.

“You’ve become desensitized,” I type. Then I make thumbprints over my iPhone and call The Boy, to share a matter of fact: “I’m always selling my sex to you, and now you’re numb to it.”

The Boy laughs. “What do you think happens, fucker, when you’ve got this beautiful 20-something-year-old with her hands down your pants all the time?”

“That’s it,” I say, my mind softly whirring, purring, solving a business problem. “It’s like you’ve worked at Playboy and constantly saw naked chicks. A Brazilian wax and crotch-less panties mean nothing to you now. So you’re getting sent to a monastery. If you want sex, you’ll just have to touch little boys named Christopher, with a ‘C,’ and forget the girl named Kristopher, with a ‘K.’”

The Boy laughs, he must not–

“Believe me, I’m going PG on your ass,” I say. “I’m scrapping the flapper frocks and hooker heels and showing up in a dirty robe and rollers, and I’m wearing a one-piece in your jacuzzi, I’m–”

“Gottatakethiscallcallyoubackbaby.”

“Bye.”

I hang up, mind made up: I’ll only upgrade from “desiring” to “desired” if I switch quick from playing expensive hooker to overpriced housewife, if I forgo knowing sex as a luxe pleasure and play that the deed’s a chore. The Boy’s been drowning in the scent of Chanel No. 5 and thinks that’s what air smells like; he’s forgotten that more than half of New York City, the most boss of the US, stinks of piss.

I ponder posing on the patio of The Boy’s home in a trench coat that’s covering clothing instead of trashy lingerie, my hair less than carefully disheveled. I think about watching him under my eyes over dinner and wondering when he’ll reach first for me, and–

I’m more than a little turned on.

Fuck it.

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