Exempt - Sex Stories

Exempt

Before you do it, may I say something? Annually, you silently loathe it. I know this. You’ll search for us in an aisle besieged with fifty shades of pink and red that replaced the red and green 75%-off leftovers. You’ll remain mute while making your symbolic selections. Standing, waiting, sighing behind lines of anxiety laced testosterone in the twelfth hour on the fourteenth day of the second month: compensation for procrastinating - your engaging in the pretentiousness of it all. Remember, you laughed about it, you and your boys, two weeks earlier between the three-layer dip, tortilla chips, pizza, and Bud Light . Before halftime with Katy and Missy, one boasted about reservations, filet mignon, buttery lobster, and lava cake. After the commercial with Katie and Bryant, but well before that idiotic pass at second and goal, another bragged on ruby petals, fuzzy bears, and exotic truffles he’d send to her job to make her associates envious. Impressed with their plans, you’d search for us amongst their devices, forgetting that flavor lasts a moment, parched stems aren’t pretty, and deliveries are sometimes lost. Knowing we are not there, you’d choose to follow them anyway, and then wonder if you made the right choice. With pulse in throat, you’d present quid pro quo: a Valentine with the hope that my thighs would spread open wide to offer a Thanksgiving and a Christmas. Then I’d say, “thank you for your selection. But had you ...

... asked me, I would have informed you that your everyday is where we are. Your everyday is enough.” Had you asked me, I would’ve told you that your foreplay – your little notes in the morning, texts throughout the day, and words whispered in the dark fondle and kiss my metaphysical in a way that a lifetime of Hallmark greetings never could. Had you asked me, I would have told you that my need to belong collapses underneath the weight of you. Your heaviness, build, id, ego, and pneuma, penetrates, thrusts, soothes, and satisfies my aching want. Had you asked me, my answer would’ve caused you to you gloat to your boys about not having to buy fragrances or chocolates. The sweet I desire in my mouth can’t be purchased at a store, because yours is simply not for sale. It’s already mine. Even now, as I speak these words, you’re wondering if this is a trick, a reverse psychology of some sort. Breathe, relax, and smile. Your everyday is enough. You are exempt. But if you must do it... search for us in an aisle besieged with fifty shades of pink and red that replaced the red and green 75%-off leftovers, smile and brag while making your symbolic selection: a red ribbon. Stand, wait, sigh behind lines of anxiety laced testosterone in the twelfth hour on the fourteenth day of the second month, you sexy procrastinator. When you get home, tie that red ribbon on your wherever. Take a seat. Let me properly thank you, because your everyday is enough.