PANTIES IN THE SINK

I come home after a long day at the office, making x’s and o’s on a legal pad, and what do I find: panties in the sink (and they’re not even edible).

They’re not really in the sink. They’re encircling the faucet like an illicit lei, as if they had been ripped off and flung in heat by their owner who was sitting on top of the kitchen counter (where I wish a baked potato were sitting next to a barbecued pork chop and some oh baby carrots right now) waiting with her legs spread wide for the consommetion.

And, chrrrist, they are all gooey in the crotch as if the guy had add-on leaves to his member, enough to satisfy a whole tableful of hungry adulterous sluts, and couldn’t wait for her to get her panties off, at least not the first time anyway, and took the cotton, which was already thickly lubricated, right up inside her with his introductory stabs and explosions.

When I finally locate the owner of the panties, she is sprawled on the bed in her oversized fudge-splattered sweat pants with an ice pack on her head. I say: “I see you’ve had a hard day, dear. Guess my supper will be ready as soon as the ice melts, right?”