milk is for the pussy
“Milk is for the pussy. Do you dare me to sit in it?”
“Well, do you?” She stood backlit by the living room window with those cold kind of eyes.
You could sit in hot tar for all I care, I thought, but couldn’t say it.
Denim hugging thigh fat, fat pushed up by it, fat spilling out over the top of low rise jeans. Her gaze darted back and forth between my bald spot and the bowl of milk on the floor. I averted mine.
“You really dare me, you triple dog dare me?”
I had said nothing, said nothing, no breathing.
“Blink if you want me to sit in it,” she urged, her coconut-y scent approaching the stench of mine.
I kept a determined gaze on the jar of piss beside me on the floor.
“Blink if you want me to sit in it,” she repeated.
You could sit in hot tar, you could sit in hot tar for all I care, I thought, or prayed, and she did, she was kneeling on the floor next to me, her face near mine, clasped hands placed neatly on lap, thighs bulging even more so against jeans in this position, her stomach and hands pearly against the blackened floor.
The outer edges of my eyes became wet, and I blinked, I couldn’t help it.
“I knew you wanted me to sit in it,” she grinned, hopping up merrily, doing a jete on her way back to the bowl by the window. It’s long beige curtains stirred slightly, as if animated by a summer breeze, like on tv, though this was winter in a thing called real life and the windows hadn’t been cracked in years. I wasn’t sure they could be.
“Look at me,” she demanded, and I figured I had already lost at this point, so I did, and she pulled pants toward ankle socks, then crouched in the saucer, rubbed herself in it, back and forth, back and forth, and meditating on my bald spot, and filled with delight, she screamed.