Dearest Milton James

by N.R. Walker

some warehouse of postal hell

Christ on a freaking beige cracker.

“I’m sure anyone with five cats and an accordion was everyone’s friend.

He smiled like this was the Twilight Zone and I’d entered the Hotel California and once you checked in, you could never leave.

“Glenda always brought in a cat cake,” Theo told me as he handed me a plate with a slice of the cat’s arse on it. “Thanks,” I said with a befuddled smile. The cat’s arse? What was that supposed to mean?

He bit his bottom lip and I died for the third time in two minutes.

Julian put his hand on my arm. He looked two parts concerned, four parts amused, a billion parts sexy as fuck. I never was any good at maths.

“It’s obvious,” I declared. “You’re telling me all this so we can make a voodoo doll of him and make him suffer.” Oh my god, this was possibly my best idea ever. “We could follow him, and when he tries to pick up some unfortunate unsuspecting guy, we can just give him a little tap in the back of the head or stick a pin in his dick, and we’ll be watching from across the bar and we can laugh and laugh.”

Oh. My. God. This book is so freaking hilarious.

My neighbour in the next flat has a cat that likes to sleep on my balcony. I would die for that cat. His name is Buster Jones and I love him. I sneak him some diced ham or chicken every night, but it’s our little secret.

“What was his name? Your ex. I need to know what name to curse every time I hear it.” “Christopher.” “Not Chris?” “Oh no, Christopher.” “Well, I hope he’s decidedly miserable and I hope karma craps on him from a very great height.”

I pecked his lips with mine. “And then you can do all the tasting of my dick you want.” Julian hummed. “And you can taste mine.” “Sure. I’ll just unhinge my jaw like a snake so it fits.” He scoffed at that. “Okay, so I’m not that big.”

After all, I was a twenty-seven-year-old twinky man-boy that probably needed looking after more than I wanted to admit.