bopis

At the outset, I should say that this is not my story and will never be my story. This must be said with a healthy dose of vehemence, and maybe only the fly register can serve the purpose of caveat to the hilt: this is so not my story.

As in.

Once there was a couple, the usual hetero, and the girl was in the red so the guy had to content himself with the capitals B and J. They were the wild type, doing the do everywhere but on the bed. There were sheets all over the house but no underwear. Neither of them bothered with underwear unless they had to work or go out to buy some food.

The do. Guy did it for the fun. Girl did it for the exercise. Of course they say it's for love. Three permutations of speaking the love-word apply to them. Before the deed, it's beg. During, it's shout. After, it's whisper. It's the panting, the moaning, and the foreplay: love. A fly syllable. Of course.

It was not their first time with the red. They've had months between them. They've accumulated hours of tongue, so to speak. But in this particular hour, this "once," the guy tried for the throat, past the palate and down the uvula. Or maybe it was the girl who sought the good choke. These are lost details.

What they did not forget is that the girl began to vomit and the guy held fast her nape when it happened because he found it warm. And the girl vomitted some more because she liked him holding fast.

They were all laughter and hoots in the showers. Cheers all around!

They took some of that celebratory spirit to bed and, without knowing it, they fell asleep at exactly the same time. They also did not know that they shared a minute before sleep and it was a minute of wondering. The girl thought: Would he like us to do that again? Would I?

The guy thought: Did she swallow?