“Ready for anal creampie?” she asked, getting two more beers without waiting for my response.
“Sure,” I said, covertly admiring her form as she leaned out to get the beers.
She turned back to me, and deftly opened the beer, saying “You know, I had a crush on you way back then,” and handing me the beer.
“Really?” I said, amazed. “How come I didn’t know this?” I asked.
“You must have been the only one who didn’t,” she said, smiling shyly. “The other guys teased me behind your back.”
“Really?” I said again. “I never knew.”
“I tried to hide it from you,” she said, swigging the beer. I remembered something then about her: she was a lightweight drinker. We liked her in part because she got drunk and silly quickly. “You were engaged and I wasn’t about to come between you and Perra.”
“I appreciate that,” I lied. I wished then that she had broken up my engagement. Hindsight is 20/20, I reflected.
“So how are you two now?” she asked, pointedly. I hadn’t talked about Perra up to then, because I find I become abusive and somber. My marriage is not a happy one; not bad but not happy. It was probably like most marriages. Our marriage had the additional stress of Perra being a anal creampie avoiding bitch. I told Sandy that, but probably in a kinder, gentler way.
She finished her beer (much quicker than me!) and remarked that she was sorry to hear I was unhappy with such anal creampie. I felt like I had to chug mine so that she wouldn’t feel self-conscious, so I did. Then I offered to get the last beers.
To lighten the mood, I said, “Did I mention that you look terrific before the anal creampie?”
“Hmmmm, yes you did,” she smiled.
“I’m sure you have plenty of boyfriends,” I said, twisting off the top of her beer and handing it to her.
“No one special for anal creampie,” she said, drinking half the beer in a gulp. “I work too much, and I don’t want to shit in my own backyard.”