Bouncy

by B. Sobjakken

Thank whatever genius invented gray sweatpants and athletic shorts.

Every jump swung the giant schlong between his legs, leaving nothing to the imagination about his weapon of mass vaginal destruction.

“He’s looking to add his banana to that fruit salad.” I blink. “What?” “You know, batter-dipping the corn dog. Creaming your twinkie,”

“Bringing the al dente noodle to the spaghetti house.”

“You could probably still see if you stand behind the desk. I tend to work harder when I know I have an audience.”

If I let myself consider that she watches because she’s just as attracted to me, I know I can make the moves to devour Acacia’s untouched honeypot.