Male/Female

"I think I'll do it with him."

Amy swivels about on the kitchen stool, letting the chair chase her smile around. The evening sun filters through the chantry blind, setting a golden cage about her; tigerstripes across a black blouse and charcoal skirt. This is the dangerous time and she twtiches; all energy and potential, about to burst into life.

He looked at her, she looked at him, the way two people look at each other the first time they realize they love each other. They were like two peas in a pod, two humans in a room, to lovers in a relationship, sharing the same scene as if they were each extensions of the same being. Lying down on their king size bed together they embraced one another. He was naked, she wore a pink thong, their bodies entwined like spaghetti cooking in a pot, and just as hot and steamy.

"Hand over the purse, lady."  It's a gruff voice out of the night, a threatening bark that leads me to gasp and start involuntarily even though I've come down this forbidding road intentionally in a quest for my unusual brand of fun.  It's an adrenaline shot through my whole body, like boiling water through my veins.  It's time.  I hug my purse protectively closer to my rib, and slowly revolve to face my assailant.  He's there in the yawning shadows between the two dim streetlights, the knife edge a gleaming ribbon in the dark.

"It's really silly, my fetish," I say, making significant effort to allow embarrassment into my voice. I drop my eyes from his as if ashamed, though I've had this conversation a dozen times before.

"Nonsense," he counters, smiling patronizingly. It's there to read in his face: already he is fantasizing that it must be something predictably male. His imagination takes hold of him and he surmises I must be dreaming of a threesome with him and another woman. Uninspired. The truth is far more perverse.