Another Dirty Story
“When did it stop being about sex?”
“It’s always been about sex,” Cailin said.
She had her hands in my pants and her head against my chest. The TV was tuned to the news. The anchor discussed a celebrity’s promiscuity.
“It’s like the world went sterile.”
Her fingers wrapped around my balls and teased them. The gesture was more playful than erotic, but I hardened against her wrist.
“I like that word… sterile.”
On TV, the reporters transitioned: “Well, sounds like she’ll be having a lot of fun to-night. In other news, more violence in Iraq where a car bomb…”
I said, “I could call up your mother right now and explain how, for your birthday, we’re going to make ourselves up like corpses, crawl around the graveyard, and fuck like zombies.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“And she’d say: how sweet, use protection and plenty of lube.”
“My mother wouldn’t say that.”
“She wouldn’t call the cops.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Your mother would—”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about my mother while you have an erection.”
I kissed Cailin’s forehead. She snuggled close against me. Commercials promised us shocking twists on popular programs. Someone was going to die, we were assured.
She giggled and said, “I mean, it might get you off too quick.”
I laughed. Her head bounced up and down on my chest. She turned to look at me. Her eyeliner was smeared and ran down her cheek on one side. We kissed. Her hand crawled up my dick and grasped. I closed my eyes.
“Do we have to do the zombie thing for your birthday?” I asked.
Her hand stopped moving. I opened my eyes. She looked confused, concerned.
“It’s traditional!”
