I’m so glad we don’t have milk men these days or door to door salesmen selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.
I’m glad she is not my wife, the housewife who stays at home
with apron on, but nothing else, who calls for pizza delivery with an
unexpected tip.
It could be worse. She could be fucking the mailmen, too, or
the Prime driver, or even the man in the mustard green UPS uniform, getting her
afternoon delight as prelude to an evening with me, the perfect housewife who
brings herself to me naked on a half shell, where I suck her up along with the
remnants of all who came before me, never knowing of their visit, grateful for
the lack of milkman or salesman when there are so many more modern me she can engage
with.
If she was my wife, I could not work, my mind pondering all
the possible combinations, her visit to the shopping mall with other
housewives, the livid luncheons, the cocktails afterwards, the afternoon gigolos
who wait for women like these to prey one, no milkmen, no salesmen, just pizza
for two – with me coming home to give her an afterwork cocktail, drinking her
up with all those who came before me, while I wonder who will have her after I
fall asleep.
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