not some mistake

Oh come on. You really think I’m going to take that for a mistake?

You knew all too well what time I was going to be here to pick you up this morning, I told you yesterday before we left. I said it to the minute, there was no lack of understanding. I told you I’d knock on the door at 7:30am, expected you’d be ready to go. Instead you holler for me to “come in.”

Stepping through and clicking the door shut behind me, your apartment presses me towards its belly. You are nowhere to be seen, but I can hear you, you’re off in the bathroom. And, as I walk into the…

Oh… oh no way… nuh-uh… are you being for real right now?

Look, this was no accident, you left this ironing board out for my sake, didn’t you? Laden with your unmentionables… some piled some folded, all drawing my attention like a full solar eclipse at noon. There is no way this was a simple miss on your part, this had to be deliberate.

For God’s sake your underclothes… am I reading too much into this? Maybe you were just in the middle of laundry… nothing so odd about that… maybe you’re one of those chicks who could care less… maybe I’m the prude. But, you’re so chaste, so wholesome… I just can’t wrestle this idea. Eventually, I’ll settle on some hybrid theory that satisfies both my impressions of your promiscuity and my all-Penthouse-Forum-all-the-time thought patterns: You did leave them out knowingly, and for the most part innocently, yet still aware of the typical male reaction.

There, that squares it. Nothing overtly porno, nothing rock-stupid. See, I generally handle these things pretty well, and I’m a lot more comfortable as I ease onto the couch to wait for you. Your echoed shout sounds from the bathroom, “I’ll be right out.” Oh, and here you come now, I’m glad you…

Oh… oh no way… nuh-uh… are you being for real right now?

Leading the way come your long legs, no socks, no shoes, no anything. As my eyes sweep the scene: You, hair wet and curly-tangled down your back, no makeup at all on your face, and a simple mauve towel clutched to you as covering, wrapped tight around you making you the most mouth-watering terrycloth burrito I’ve ever laid eyes on. “I’m running a bit late,” you say, smiling as ordinarily as ever as you glide past me, snatching parts and pieces from the aforementioned folded pile on the aforementioned ironing board.

Oh, you planned this.

Dressed in a towel, the requisite building-blocks of your wardrobe conveniently left in the common room where you know I’ll be waiting. Your fresh-from-the-shower wind as you swish tail back to the bedroom blows at me like a perfumed hurricane, spilling torrents of yours-if-you-want-it promiscuity. This was not an accident, and you’re certainly far from the virginal choirgirl you sell yourself as when we’re in your lair.

I act as normal as possible, I’m a stone, a carved image of a man, unfeeling and unreactive. Just like I expected you to be naked under a towel when I stopped in to pick you up, like it’s normal as Hell. Nothing in the world more mundane than your long legs, like speckled porcelain, bared to high-thigh. Yup, regular everyday stuff that.

But y’know… let not man put asunder… and everything.


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