Steve wants to fuck after reading my poetry about penises. “It’s really hot,” he says. “I love the ones with BDSM references. You’re daring.” I want to fuck Steve, but my girlfriend and I are monogamous. Instead, I hide my erection with hand in pocket, nursing it until flesh softens like cold dough. Steve is drunk. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be whispering sweet nothings with patrons around. Steve and I are servers at a southern chain restaurant where every meal is one potential heart attack. “I wish you were my boyfriend,” Steve says. “We could run away to Alabama.” I wonder what’s in Alabama to run away to. Before I can inquire, Dale, our manager, comes over and grabs Steve’s arm. “You’re stumbling, Steve,” he says. “Give me your keys and sober up in the kitchen.” Steve limps away. Dale cocks his left eyebrow above his hairline. “What did he want with you?” he asks. “He was just flirting,” I say, lying. I think Steve might be in love with me. Dale fires Steve that night. Three weeks later, my girlfriend and I agree to temporary polyamory. I wouldn’t have run away with Steve, but we could’ve fucked. Maybe that would’ve been enough for both of us. A little healthy disappointment. I’m really quite vanilla. Still, I’m a hypersexual transgressive badass in Steve’s head. Alabama isn’t such a shithole, an alternate reality of passionate blowjobs.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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