Slippery to Touch

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Shrieking as I press the cold bottle of beer against her flesh, I grin while taking a sip from my own.

“Idiot!” she proclaims before grabbing the bottle and bringing it to her lips. Chugging it down as if it were water, she burps in my face and then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Why do you have to irritate me so much? I never irritate you.”

“If you believe that,” I say, “then you’re as mad as you look.”

Gasping, she raises her free hand as if to slap me, but I raise the wrapped fish before my face shielding me from harm.

“It stinks,” she says while lowering her hand back down to her side.

“You should know, you’re the one who left it in the fridge to go off. Why did you even buy it? You don’t even like fish, and neither do I.”

Looking sheepish, she turns her back on me again and continues staring out the window.

“I told you, it’s not mine. You must’ve bought it while drunk.”

For a second, I look about the room as if someone’s called my name. Did I actually buy it drunk? It wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility. I was always ordering shit off the internet during a night of drunken writing and then forgetting until it came in the post a few days later. But fish? No, I’m sure it’s something she must’ve done.

“The issue of whoever bought it doesn’t matter,” I say, “that we have it to give to the dog is our main concern right now.”

“Main concern,” she mirrors with a smirk.

Taking another swig of beer, I reach into my boxers and adjust my junk. It’s sweaty and slippery to touch, and when I remove my hand, I go ahead and sniff my fingers. It’s not as pungent as the smell of her sex, but it’s not far off.

“Should I just chuck it out the window?” I ask.

“Your dick or the fish?”

“The fish,” I reply dryly.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, “You’ll end up lobbing it onto someone’s head, or it’ll end up in the road and under the wheels of a bus. No, you’ll have to entice him over. Call to him. Gain his trust.”

“What am I, some kind of dog whisperer?”

“Oh, shush. You’re good with animals. They trust you.”

Having some more beer, I touch my balls again and take another sniff of my fingers.

“Will you stop doing that? What are you, a toddler?”

Shaking her head, she leans out of the window. Ducking down next to her, I remove the fish from the plastic wrapping and hold it at arm’s length. The sun is blinding, and as I peer at the traffic flowing below, it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light. In the meantime, Meeko is kissing her teeth, making strange noises. They’re not dog noises though, more like those you would make for a cat, and this I know won’t do at all. Puckering up, I blow out a shrill whistle that cuts through the air like a knife, and much to my delight, she jumps out of her skin banging her head on the roof of the window.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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