Bring him breakfast in bed, they said. He'll be so seduced, smear strawberry preserves across your ass and lick you clean, they said. It'll be hot as hell.
And so I tried. Truly, I did. I prepared the best spread money could buy — or, rather, the best of what I could find in the pantry this morning, being that I'd forgotten I was actually doing this until, like, twenty minutes ago. That's why the "spread" is actually just an apple, a Hostess snack, two hunks of stale bread, and a sprig of fake grapes (I wanted it to look nice!). And, of course, I brewed up a hot pot of coffee. Because if there's one thing I know about my man Cleiber it's that he always prefers his beans ~freshly ground~.
Cut to one minute ago: I strut in wearing nothing but slippers and my new patent-leather assless briefs, breakfast tray balanced on one hand and two cups o' joe clutched tightly in the other. I coo softly to my boo. He stirs awake as I slide my goodies onto the bed but then, suddenly, I've lost my balance. The cups tumble out of my grip, spilling caliente-ass café all over Cleiber's man bits, and the moment is lost. Cleiber's screaming. I'm screaming. Our relationship will never be the same.
Now, Cleib's sopping up the mess with a pillow and I'm vowing never to serve breakfast in bed ever again. Because it turns out that the best part of waking up is not Folgers in your crotch.
Yours in thirst,
Lincoln (@marytodd_)
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