1. Sex, sex, sex

“I feel so cheap.”

   “Oh, do tell me about it, dear.”

   “Well, you know how it is with them. All they want these days is sex, sex, sex, and more sex.”

   “That’s so true.”

   “Sometimes I just want to be held. You know, cuddled.”

   “Oh, I know exactly how you feel.”

   “They’re so unwilling to commit anymore,” Sam said with a heavy sigh. “But, I thought this one was different. We talked about having children. And that’s really when . . .”

   A waiter came to their table. “How we doing here, guys?”

   “We’re fine,” Sam replied coldly.

   “If you need anything,” the waiter said with a playful, lusty look in the eyes, “just holler.”

   As the waiter moved onto another table, Martin turned to Sam and said, “Did you see the way that waiter stared at you? She was practically undressing you with her eyes.”

   “It’s disgusting,” Sam replied, uncrossing his legs and adjusting his colorful codpiece to give his generous testicles some air. “We’re nothing but sexual objects to them.”

   Martin’s own testicles, augmented twice by plastic surgery, were each the size of a cantaloupe and half exposed for all and sundry to see. Recently waxed, they looked gorgeous and Martin knew it. He wanted women to take notice, but as he was quick to note there was a fine line between glancing and ogling, and women were, more often than not, guilty of overstepping that line.

   “Shameless,” Martin hissed and took a sip from his Shirley Temple. “How’s your chamomile tea, dear?”

   “It’s gone straight to my head,” Sam answered, yawning daintily behind his hand. “I feel a nap coming on.”

   “Shall we continue this conversation tomorrow evening over, say, a bottle of wine?”

   “Oh, let’s! It’s been so long since we just talked and talked and talked.”

   “Come over to my place, then.”

   “Will Hiroshi be there?” Sam asked. Hiroshi was Martin’s Japanese roommate.

   “Yes, he just returned from Japan this morning and he brought back some bottles of imo shôchû.”

   “Eemoh what?”

   “Imo shôchû,” Martin said. “It’s a spirit made from sweet potatoes.”

   “Intriguing! Maybe you can convince him to cook us up a nice Japanese meal to go with it.”

   “I’m sure he’ll say, yes. You know how he loves to cook for others.”  

   “Boys night in,” Sam said pleasantly. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

   “It has,” Martin agreed, finishing off the last drop of his Shirley Temple.

   Martin flagged the waiter over to their table. “Could we have the check, please?”

   The waiter gestured toward another table where a group of women was seated and said, “Your drinks have been put on those ladies’ tab.”

   “But, we can’t possibly . . .,” Sam protested.

   “They insist,” the waiter said with a shrug.

   Sam glanced towards the women who were all goggling back at the two men, highballs, martinis, and beers raised in a toast.

   “We should at least go over and say, ‘Thank you’,” Martin suggested.

   Sam shook his head. “The last thing I need in my life is another woman who thinks she can get into my pants just by buying me a drink. C’mon let’s go!”

   “Pity,” Martin sighed. “The one in the pinstriped suit was kind of handsome.”

© Aonghas Crowe, 2011-12. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.