I met her at a party. She was going on and on about her boss, “It’s only out of professional courtesy that I don’t go into his office and shit on him.” Her words created an incredibly wholesome picture so I followed her around all night handing her drinks, and her vulgarity increased with every sip. I wished I knew her boss so I could go into his office and shit on him.
Calves like a sexy football player, we’d run through the Lake Michigan dunes, and she’d never tire; she’d push me down in the sand and do what she called a quickie. Then she started eating without me, running out with me, and screwing without me.
“All we do is drink,” she moaned.
“That’s not all we do,” I cooed, pulling her close to me.
I’d promised to give up booze just to have those legs wrapped around me on the beach.
She opened the door, saw beer bottles all over the table, walked over toward me and said, “The liver is an amazingly forgiving organ.”
I looked at her, in awe; her words were so brutally clever and honest. I started picking up the bottles, relieved she was home. I was sure she was going to add, “But I’m not.”
Immediately, her words became a hopeful mantra in my head: The liver is an amazingly forgiving organ. Then I started humming the words, doing a bit of a dance as I picked up the bottles. She wrapped two toes around a bottle neck, lifted the bottle from the floor, and performed the most amazing acrobatic move, the bottle reached above her face and she drained the final dregs. “I’m ready for a cold one.”
She didn’t need to wait. I’d do anything for those legs.