deepundergroundpoetry.com
"60 Minutes," and More
This is my first attempt at prose on this site. I would appreciate any feed back. I don't mind being dissected.
It had become a ritual. Sheila and I would first prepare dinner on Sunday evening, then sit down to the latest news probing on "60 Minutes."
The lasagna turned out to have the consistency of a brick, but we ate it anyway, sparing ourselves any mutual blame. Dessert was ice cream, a safe bet right from the freezer.
We plopped down on the couch after finishing the World Class Chocolate, ready to catch up on the latest "60 Minutes" coverage.
We zeroed in on the tube, finding our focus and briefly forgetting our own petty concerns.
The problem was that Sheila was wearing her cut off jeans and tight Nine Inch Nails t-shirt. Her legs were extended on the coffee table.
They were far from perfect, a little heavy in the thighs, but to me they were sculpture. Sheila had shaved them that morning, and they shined in the television's strobing light.
My love wasn't wearing a bra, and the gentle swell of her breasts was clear. Her nipples appeared somewhere within the t-shirt's N I N logo.
I casually rested my hand on her thigh, and began stroking. Sheila responded by draping her leg over my knee, and this was enough to set me off. I had on my warm up pants and things were heating up inside that cotton.
Sheila was outraged at the disruption of our Sunday twilight routine.
"Are you getting a hard on, you freak?," she demanded, "just as they're pulling into Syria?" Sheila turned her eyes back to the screen, but the corners of her sweet lips were curling into a smile.
"I guess I'm just callous," I replied, trying to sound contrite but not that convincingly. "But you're a corrupter of my morality, a fucking spiritual plague."
"And you'll just have to deal with it," she answered, tugging down my warm ups just as a commercial came on about disposable diapers. This was followed by a segment on hunger in a country that now escapes my memory.
Sheila leaned over and took me in her mouth. She began bobbing her head, slowly then with increasing speed. Pretty basic thus far.
Then, very eventually, Sheila took me all the way in, holding me, wriggling her tongue, her voice humming. She knew just how to pull my trigger.
I exploded, and Sheila seemed to enjoy every drop.
The "60 Minutes" moderator offered commentary. "Most of the population appears to be starving," he intoned, looking extremely grave.
"Not here, they're not," I sighed as Sheila surfaced, smiling brightly. "Not in this corner of the planet."
It had become a ritual. Sheila and I would first prepare dinner on Sunday evening, then sit down to the latest news probing on "60 Minutes."
The lasagna turned out to have the consistency of a brick, but we ate it anyway, sparing ourselves any mutual blame. Dessert was ice cream, a safe bet right from the freezer.
We plopped down on the couch after finishing the World Class Chocolate, ready to catch up on the latest "60 Minutes" coverage.
We zeroed in on the tube, finding our focus and briefly forgetting our own petty concerns.
The problem was that Sheila was wearing her cut off jeans and tight Nine Inch Nails t-shirt. Her legs were extended on the coffee table.
They were far from perfect, a little heavy in the thighs, but to me they were sculpture. Sheila had shaved them that morning, and they shined in the television's strobing light.
My love wasn't wearing a bra, and the gentle swell of her breasts was clear. Her nipples appeared somewhere within the t-shirt's N I N logo.
I casually rested my hand on her thigh, and began stroking. Sheila responded by draping her leg over my knee, and this was enough to set me off. I had on my warm up pants and things were heating up inside that cotton.
Sheila was outraged at the disruption of our Sunday twilight routine.
"Are you getting a hard on, you freak?," she demanded, "just as they're pulling into Syria?" Sheila turned her eyes back to the screen, but the corners of her sweet lips were curling into a smile.
"I guess I'm just callous," I replied, trying to sound contrite but not that convincingly. "But you're a corrupter of my morality, a fucking spiritual plague."
"And you'll just have to deal with it," she answered, tugging down my warm ups just as a commercial came on about disposable diapers. This was followed by a segment on hunger in a country that now escapes my memory.
Sheila leaned over and took me in her mouth. She began bobbing her head, slowly then with increasing speed. Pretty basic thus far.
Then, very eventually, Sheila took me all the way in, holding me, wriggling her tongue, her voice humming. She knew just how to pull my trigger.
I exploded, and Sheila seemed to enjoy every drop.
The "60 Minutes" moderator offered commentary. "Most of the population appears to be starving," he intoned, looking extremely grave.
"Not here, they're not," I sighed as Sheila surfaced, smiling brightly. "Not in this corner of the planet."
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