Pop Tarts and Coitus
I lay down next to her, breathing heavily,
and as the sweat rolled off my cheek I lit a cigarette.
Taking my first puff, I thought,
How long did I last? That must've been two minutes, right?
Yeah, definitely two minutes. But isn't that really short? Like, borderline shameful?
No, of course not. You could have absolutely made a couple Pop Tarts
while we were having sex just now.
At least you could have microwaved them. Not sure how long it would have taken using the toaster.
(Damn toasters can take so long, you know?)
...
Fuck, I could really go for a Pop Tart.
I looked over at her,
and she stared back at me with a look in her eyes
that obviously betrayed her profound lust for me.
Or profound confusion.
(I mix the two up a lot.)
Was I saying all that Pop Tart shit out loud? Is that why she looks so confused/lustful?
Oh God, should I ask her?
No, I shouldn't. If I was really saying all that stuff, I already look completely insane,
and if I wasn't then I'll definitely seem batshit crazy by asking.
Wow, I just logic'd the shit out of that problem.
After staring at her for a decidedly uncomfortable amount of time,
I figured I should go for my best post-sex follow-up line:
"I hope that was as good for you as it was for me."
She started to say something, but I interrupted her.
"Shut up, you'll only ruin the moment."
She turned her head to look at the ceiling,
with a look on her face that seemed to ask
just what chain of events led to this juncture in her life.
But to be honest I really didn't care,
because all I was actually thinking about as I fell asleep
was how much I wanted a God-damn Pop Tart.
--Pastry
hahahaha
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