Wednesday, June 24, 2015

The Vulva Cherry Receptacle (POV)

 

Every morning you first stop at your employer's mailbox. Both boxes, your hot one and the mail are in the direct line of sight from my work.

Do you see me a mere 300 yards away? Pressed up to the glass, drooling? Do you notice my jean's zipper stressing from the pressure of my viagra intensified, bulging girth of man excitement?
Of course you do, how could you not?

I never tire of these rendezvous. I've come to need them actually. The way you gracefully navigate the short distance, from your vehicle to the package receiver, and then back. Radio blaring, cell phone pressed to your face, hands pulling at a just-too-short skirt. A multi-tasking love goddess. I feel like I've known you my whole life.

Speeding away to your designated parking takes you out of my view. And so even though alarms are sounding in my production area, and the ruling economic order's hooligans are yelling at me, I walk outside and pretend to get something from the Honda. I stare as you effortlessly carry in purse, bags, folders, coffee, fruit, yogurt, makeup, mace, iPad, charger, mirror, and what looks like a curling iron and a World War II era mine clearing device. All with that short-stepped, crouched, high heel walk that I have come to adore and memorialize in several intense jerk sessions while standing at the urinal.

Yes! I am the guy several hundred feet away now, with a wet spot next to my zipper. I know you sense me, especially when I trip over that one pothole in the middle of the lot. Every. God. Damn. Time. Do you see my reflection in the glass doors as you enter, or maybe in that giant phone still pressed to your face?

I know you long for me. One day I will muster the courage to leave a long, stiff note in that humid, dented box of yours. The one you fondle with every morning because the flap is loose and won't stay closed like it used to. It's ok. As I know how to work an exhausted, burnt out, cock locker of a delivery snatch back into a spurt-sauce gushing, proud pudendal slit bunker once more.
But now the coke machine vending lady is pulling up and I am over you. . . distracted.

N.

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