It’s Saturday morning and my stomach feels sticky. On top of that, my legs feel listless, and on top of that is my husband Lou. Not only did he start without me; he finished without me, too. It isn’t like Lou to be so thoughtless.
“The early bird gets the sperm,” I grumble, rousing from slumber.
Lou laughs. “Thank you for the lewd awakening, but that sticky stuff isn’t mine.” Lou reaches for the plate beside my hip and punctures a flapjack with his fork. Gently, he glides the griddle cake across my middle, dabbing it in the syrup. It’s a little like the gel I squirt on bumpy bellies when I’m performing an ultrasound, except it’s warmer and…hotter.
Lou nibbles on the fluffy batter, smacks his lips, licks the maple off my midriff. When Lou makes me breakfast in bed, well, Lou makes me breakfast in bed.
“You’re quite the dish, Blaire,” he remarks.
“You’re quite the sap, Lou,” I return.
He sticks a kiss on my belly button. “Thank you, beautiful.”
“Oh, what a beautiful morning,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. My husband calls me beautiful all the time, as if it’s my name. I pout about it, pretend it’s just a pointless, predictable platitude and when is he going to tell me something I don’t know already? But the truth is, when Lou gets mushy, I get gooey, and by this point my insides feel remarkably similar to that syrup he’s slurping. I shake my head, flipping my frown like a pancake.
“That’s the spirit,” Lou applauds, clapping my thigh. “Grin and Blaire it.”
“I suppose that’s easier than having to grin and, uh, bare it.”
Lou smirks, shudders, shrugs. “Not really. Stripping is no different than undressing.” He nestles his chin against my navel. “There’s nothing to it.”
I stroke his shoulder. “I’d be nervous, too,” I commiserate. “Hell, I’d be petrified.”
“I am neither nervous nor petrified,” Lou insists, but his voice resists, sounding high but not mighty.
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I did.”
“No, dear, you didn’t.”
“You’re right.” I knew he’d relent. “It scares the pants off me.” I knew he’d lament.
“That’s the spirit,” I cheer, fisting the air. “Undress for success.”
Now before anyone starts thinking nasty thoughts, I need to point out that my husband is not a striptease artist, amateur or otherwise. He’s a triple threat: actor, singer, dancer. A true talent, only don’t tell him I said so because the man will turn redder than a spanked fanny. I don’t know why my music man doesn’t like to toot his own horn, although it might have something to do with the fact that he has me to toot it for him. (So much for not thinking nasty thoughts.)
Anyway, The Full Monty opens tonight. It’s a musical about down-and-out steel-mill workers convinced they’ll be in the money if they’re in the nude. Lou is one of the star strippers.
“My diamond in the buff.” I touch his cheek. “I’m so proud of you.” I mean it, too, and he knows it, his face pink against my palm. (See, what did I tell you?) Lou’s an awful lot like Bashful the dwarf, only taller. But when he’s onstage, he comes to life like Pinocchio. And, hey, as long as Lou keeps his performance anxiety confined to the theater, I’ll continue to support him a hundred percent.
“Um, tonight, at the show, I should mention… Well, just please keep in mind that audience participation is optional, not mandatory. If your hand gets anywhere near my…pelvic area while I’m performing, the hard part won’t be taking my clothes off. The hard part will be not getting aroused.”
“On the contrary—the hard part will be getting aroused.”
Lou groans while I giggle. He takes a gulp of air, then a gulp of orange juice. “I loathe you,” he tells me.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you, too.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“More.”
Lou’s lips touch my thigh. His lips are sticky, but then, so are mine. We complement each other so well. “I don’t have to come,” I murmur.
Lou snickers. He reaches for the bottle of syrup, holds it over me, squeezes until it squirts. The sap taps my belly, keeps flowing. “Sit up slowly,” Lou instructs. “Don’t scrunch your stomach or you’ll ruin it.”
I follow his instructions to the letter.
“I put an L on you,” Lou croons to the tune of the Screamin’ Jay Hawkins ditty, “because you’re mine.” He belts up. “Therefore,” he continues, fixing me with a look that’s both austere and sincere, “you have to come.”
I laugh until my belly aches, then smile until my face hurts. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be there with L’s on.”
I got a big bang out of the show. With a little luck, I’ll get a big bang out of Lou after the show. I deserve one—I kept my hands to myself, made sure I didn’t accidentally arouse any of the hard parts in his pelvic area. However, some women in the audience, with their hornier-than-thou attitudes and suggestive suggestions, would have done well to follow my example. Because unlike them, I was on my best behavior. And now I want Lou in the worst way.
I try to maintain some semblance of self-control when he emerges from the dressing room, but it isn’t easy. He’s beaming at me and his dolphin-gray eyes are shining and they’re just as radiant as his smile. Now he’s got me in his clutches, flush against his frame so that I’m clinging to him almost as tightly as the light-blue T-shirt he’s wearing. His chest fleshes out the shirt quite nicely, molding the material to his muscles. My heart bumps his ribs.
“I saw you leading the standing O,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’d like to see you leading me to a standing O,” I counter, hugging harder. “In fact, any kind of O will do. This is no time to be picky about positions.”
Lou loosens his grip. I don’t have much of one on myself, either. “I take it you aren’t bothered by my new sex-symbol status?” he asks, guiding me toward the door.
“Not at all.” I slip my hand into his as he starts to walk me home, just like he did when we were teenagers. “On the contrary—I’m hot and bothered by it. I don’t have to follow that pesky look-but-don’t-touch rule that everyone else does.” To drive home my point, I pull my hand loose and goose him.
Lou looks gratified yet mortified.
“What?” I shrug. “Can I help it if I get handy when I’m randy? If you don’t like it, then don’t be so desirable.”
The blush is back with a vengeance. “Thanks, beautiful,” Lou says, always gracious when I’m salacious. My shy guy and I round the corner, approaching our favorite watering hole. “Would you care for a cocktail?” he offers.
“Are they a package deal?” I’d like to know.
Lou regards me as if I’m one garment short of a full monty. “The cock and the tail—are they a package deal?” I clarify. “Because the way I see it, they’re kind of like Danny and Sandy in Grease: they go together.”
“Good grief,” Lou mutters, shaking his head at my persistent prurience. “You know, Blaire, I used to bring out the best in you. Now I just bring out the beast in you. I think I may be losing my touch.”
“You can have mine,” I propose, and press my palm against his abdomen.
Lou places his hand over mine, cups his so that our fingers are touching. “What in the world am I going to do with you?” he contemplates. “Besides the…well, you know, the obvious.”
I tickle his belly. “How about an encore? Is that something you would do with me?”
Lou leads me up the walkway. “You mean a private show?” he ponders, easing the key inside the lock. “I’m afraid that isn’t included in the ticket price.”
“That’s fine. Rest assured you’ll get plenty of buck for your bang.”
“You’re a beast, beautiful,” Lou says, and I can hear the affection—and the arousal—in his voice. He shuts the door behind us.
When one door closes, so does another. This time it’s the door to our bedroom.
“Why do you do that?” I query, slipping off my flats.
“Do what?” he asks, and his innocence is genuine.
“Why do you shut the door? Ain’t nobody here but us dickens.”
Lou pushes his hands into his pockets, making his pants bulge in all the wrong places. “I just don’t want opportunity to knock while we’re…knocking boots, that’s all.”
“That’s right,” I play along. “Opportunity had better find a more opportune time to come and knock on our door.”
Lou laughs. “It’s just comforting, I guess. Reassuring. I like doing it, so that when we’re…doing it, we’re completely alone together. Stuck on each other, stuck in here. Stuck in a never-ending state of embarrassing statements. Blaire, shut me up, please.”
I trap him in a lip-lock, effectively shutting his trap. Lou responds with a trap of his own: his arms. They fit around me snugly, securely, like a bodice.
“Blaire, darling,” he addresses me upon release, “let me entertain you.” Lou bows. It is gallant and grandiose and I can’t help but feel like a princess.
Lou smiles, kicks off his shoes. “Wish me luck,” he says.
I don’t heed. “There’s no need. You lucked out with me. You’re going to get lucky with me. Better not push your luck.”
“I’ll take your advice,” Lou agrees, “and give you a kiss.” So saying, he places a preperformance peck on my cheek.
Lights up. Showtime. I lean back on the bed, supporting myself on my hands as Lou’s hips begin to gyrate like Pelvis Presley. There is no music, just me and my private dancer, standing before me in his tight T-shirt and Herculean hubris. I can almost hear him humming, “Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” I used to bring out the best in him. Now I bring out the beast in him, too. I am definitely not losing my touch. Lou watches me watch him—or maybe it’s the other way around.
He lifts his shirt, curtain rising until the stage is bare. His chest is impeccable: a landscape of crimps and grooves and sinewy delights. I admire the undulation of his muscles as he moves. He is awkward yet graceful, confident yet modest.
Liquid lust soaks my panties. Each tingle mingles with the next, until my body starts to vibrate and my hips begin to roll.
“Are you trying to upstage me, Blaire?” he teases.
“Lou, button your lip and unbutton your pants.”
Lou buttons his lip and unbuttons his pants, and when they come off, he looks like the Michelangelo’s David but with all the naughty bits covered.
“Now we know who wears the pants in this relationship,” Lou remarks, looking pointedly at my black slacks.
“Yes, we do. And it isn’t you.” I take off my trousers. “And it certainly isn’t me.”
Lou approaches the bed and I sit up as his body enters my space, right where it belongs. I love him—with my eyes, my heart, my hands. I touch the decadent dents in his abs. I touch the sculpted silhouette of his legs, and the thighs that could squeeze the juice out of lemons. I touch the contours of his cock, that hefty bump tucked inside his briefs, which are bright yellow and terribly tacky.
“I hate it when you wear those. It looks like Pac-Man is eating your package.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Lou grumbles. “And that includes me, by the way. Blaire, my love, your underwear is an obscene shade of blue. You look like a tropical fish.”
I glance down. “They are all wet, aren’t they?”
Lou nods. He rids himself of his dreadful drawers and then rids me of mine.
I take a moment to marvel at my unclad lad. His cock is rather…spirited, with its stiff stem and rosy hue. “I can see why they cast you in the show.”
“Because I’ve got spunk?” he speculates.
“Yes, although technically it’s your Mary Tyler Moornament that’s got spunk.”
A slight spout emerges when I tap the shaft. Ah, wood that I could. And I can. So I shall.
We exchange positions and now he’s seated on the bed and I’m seated on his lap. Our lips unite, stick together for a while.
Lou’s cock knocks at the entrance.
“Come on in.”
There’s a snug tug and he’s inside, feeling right at home. His hands scale my breasts and his lips caress my ear, sharing wishes and kisses and words like Blaire and love and beautiful and others that I can’t decipher.
“I never understood why they call them sweet nothings,” Lou ponders. “I think they should be called sweet somethings.”
You got to love a man who wears his hard-on his sleeve.
Our hips move in harmony, my body thriving on the driving force of his cock. But it isn’t frantic. Bodies bumping, blood pumping, hearts thumping, we make love, not haste.
His eyes meet mine, and I notice the way he blinks in time with his thrusts, which are restrained yet restless.
I grind my groin against his—mildly at first, wildly at last.
He bursts inside me, a hot shot of spunk that causes my body to twist and turn, like the funnel of a tornado.
I let Lou slip out, but not away. A part of him stays with me—it is thick and clingy and makes me think of maple syrup.
In its pursuit of sappiness, my hand wanders between my thighs, then to his midsection, where my digits loop and dip and draw Lou’s initial.
Lou laughs, admiring my amorous artwork. “It’s beautiful, beautiful.”
“Thanks, Lou.” My smile stretches all the way from my soul to his, where they mate, just like we did. “Coming from you, that’s one L of a compliment.”