Ashley’s naughty outfit is this French maid thing. It’s like a corset. It’s not supposed to be a French maid thing, but that’s what it looks like to me. She just looks like a whore. Or a vampire or something. It’s really not that hot. I think I’m getting tired of Ashley. Just sexually. The maid thing is played out.
“What are you wearing?”
I show her the Frederick’s of Hollywood shit.
She touches the bra and looks at me. “You’re gonna wear this?”
I put the bag on her craft couch, next to a bunch of Stampin’ Up! accessories. “Want to see me in it?”
“Sure,” she says, but she’s not sure. She’s not sure at all. “Your boobs are gonna look bigger than mine,” she says.
“Are you jealous? Do you want to sit on me and think about it?” I touch her tit. She does have small tits.
“Do you wish I was..” she’s not looking at me “..more like that?”
I fingernail the shit out of her tit and she jumps back.
“Ow!”
I grab the top of her jeans.
“Do you wish I was more like this?”
“Do you wish I was more bodybuilder?” I say. “Or more washboard? Or more teen angst emo mothefuckin earlobe-plugged-out fuckin..skater..earthy..”
“No, no,” she says, “You’re pretty washboard.”
“Well don’t get worried about it.”
She’s touching the Frederick’s panties. “I just..if you want..I mean my underwear aren’t like this.”
“That’s because your underwear have class.”
“If you want me to wear underwear like this—“
“I love your underwear.”
This is the kind of thing you say to end an argument. You say this thing in private, when it’s just you and one other person. “I love your underwear.” I mean, you don’t love her underwear. You might like them, you might have kinky great feelings about them, but no one loves underwear. Love is reserved for animate, complex beings; responsive beings. You might even love a cow. You could definitely love a dog. But underwear?
“You do, baby?”
“Of course I do.”
“You love my underwear?”
“Yes.” I love to take them off you. Does that count? I love that they contain you—does that count? I love them because you love them, I love them because they’re yours. That’s the extent of my love for them. I’m not a loving-underwear kind of guy. “Come’ere, Ash. What’s wrong?”
“Do you like my costume?”
“I like it.”
“Does it make you want to fuck me?”
“I always want to fuck you.”
“But does this make you want to fuck me?”
“Jesus, Ash.” I pull away. “It’s naughty. It’s very naughty.”
“So that’s a no.”
“I can’t determine if it makes me want to fuck you, because I always want to fuck you; and hence, I can’t distinguish which of the multiple factors at play are making, me, want, to, fuck, you.”
“Do you really want to?”
“Yes.” (I really did.)
“Do you want to do it on the counter?” (The kitchen counter, this was a new thing.)
“Yes.” Of course I want to do it on the counter. Counter is fine. Kitchen. Bathroom. Those are all fine places to fuck.
“Do you wanna do it with the vibrator?”
“Yes.” Of course. I want to do it with the vibrator. No man can always be enough for a woman. You need the vibrator on your clit. I want you to have it there.
“You’re gonna play with my nipples?”
Of course. Of course I’m gonna play with your nipples. And you’re gonna cum. And then I’m gonna lay you back and fuck the shit out of you. You’ll be face-down. I’ll come on your back. Then I’ll lay on top of you and you’ll go back to craft..motherfucking..iPod holders or whatever you’re working on.