Hickster
Erotica by Berni Sarazine
As
I slowly regain consciousness
from my drunken stupor, I stare fixedly at the GPC smoke-yellowed
ceiling tiles trying to figure out where in the hell I am. The
overwhelming aroma of Aqua Velva stench and bottom shelf Turkey
Mountain whiskey slowly permeate my olfactory and I cautiously turn
my head toward the source. There you are, lying next to me on the
Armstrong linoleum floor of the kitchen in our Skyline double-wide.
We are awash in a sea of empty Milwaukee's Best beer cans that have
scattered everywhere from the overturned Rubbermaid recycling
container. The Motorola 8-track tape player sounds like its on its
last leg as it plays yet another round of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours. I
notice the fly on your H.A.S.H. Jeans is wide open and your hairy
left hand is holding your love unit as if it needs some cuddling
after the workout you put it through last night. I am stark naked
except for one Frye cowboy boot. I am puzzled as to why I have an
open jar of Jif Creamy Peanut Butter nestled between my thighs. I
remember you saying something about product placement?? You slowly
open one eye and give me a glazed look of desire while you burp up
what smells like Kraft Bacon and Cheddar Flavor Easy Cheese and
General Mills Nacho Cheese Bugles. You turn and grab the peanut
butter and begin spreading it generously on my inner thighs. As a jar
of Welch's Grape Jelly suddenly appears out of nowhere, I rejoice in
the fact that you are, once again, making me breakfast in bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment