Adult Toys

The Boy and I catwalk down a super market aisle, looking at food, the opposite scene of me sitting at the L.A. fashion show I’ve ditched, where I’d be watching underfed sticks runway–instead of eying models, we’re modeling suburban bliss.

Only we act like children instead of have them, The Boy’s almost old enough to be my father, and I’ve my hand down the back of his pants.

“Am I anything but a sex object to you?” he asks, his voice perfect pitched so that a shopping mother looks over.

“Of course you aren’t,” I say. “As soon as your body goes, so do I. Forget your brain and accomplishments–you’re nothing but a piece of lean meat to me.”

“That’s rather sexy.”

“You’re sexy,” I coo, squeezing his ass as he grabs a can of cookie dough.

We check out, The Boy snatching a giant pumpkin as we exit. “If anyone asks,” he says, grunting as he grabs hold of the sunset-shaded squash, “I thought you paid for it, and you thought I paid for it.” I grin like the jack-o-lantern we’ll carve it into.

Our next stop is a surf shop. “You need a bathing suit, baby,” says The Boy, as he buys Sex Wax for his board. “Find one here and it’s on me.”

I cruise through racks of baby blue board shorts, Hawaiian-print hoodies, my scrunched up face matching the wrinkles in a bikini that’s just shelled pieces of spandex strung together. Finally I settle on a black bikini that’s only boss because it’s ruthlessly basic. I’m dreaming of a 24K white gold monokini as I undress in a dingy dressing room, hearing The Boy chat with the sales dude. “She’s the one chick in L.A. that doesn’t own a swimming suit. And so she’s always walking around my house naked. Not that I’m complaining.”

I slide off the swimsuit that will so publicly barely cover my private parts, slipping into a lacy cami, belting tight my fox-collared coat — I’d only worn a pale slip of a silk dress to The Boy’s, and over worried of dirtying it, I opted for just dirty lingerie under my outerwear–fittingly a classic trench coat made iconic by flashers. I walk out and place the tiny triangles of fabric on the counter, and The Boy pays and we leave.

We stuff his fridge full of groceries, then slip less than half dressed under the covers of his bed, man and girl named Kristopher. The Boy’s fingers fly cross his laptop while I read on my iPhone, till he nudges me. “Check my friend’s new baby.” I lean over and see The Boy’s friend aiming his sleeping, living doll bulls eye at a web cam.”It looks like a doll!” I breath. His friend holds his hand just in front of his baby’s face so we see how tiny it is in comparison. “A doll!”

“That’s one good looking baby,” declares The Boy. He talks at his laptop to his friend, and I roll over and keep reading, comfy under covers.

Until I feel them inching off my body, my naked skin covered now only by The Boy’s low chuckles. I turn around and see The Boy pointing his web cam at my ass. “You pornographer!” I laugh and jerk the sheets back up.

Finally he ends his web cam session, and after squinting at my iPhone text, I ask him, “If you hire someone off shore you don’t have to pay U.S. taxes, right? No brainer?”

“Even though I’m only a pool boy to you, that sounds right,” The Boy answers. Then he rolls over, to kiss the tip of my nose. “How’s your work going?”

“You’re so sweet,” I answer. “I asked because I was wondering about making you my European gigolo.”

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