January 2012

Low-Fat Whipped Cream is Not Sexy

By: Sherri Collins

 
Jason will be home at seven o’clock, so I quickly make preparations. It has been twenty-two days since we last made love. It was my fault at first, I suppose. I had a drippy and unattractive cold that lingered for over a week, and of course, with his busy schedule, he couldn’t afford to get sick. Then, Rose and Madeline took turns keeping us up most nights, one with a fear of noises in her closet, the other with a chronic ear pain, then a stomach pain, then a mysterious pain that changed locations each time she spoke of it. Then, Jason worked late nearly every evening last week and came home so exhausted, I could barely tempt him with dinner, much less any other savory delights. The weekends have been full of family and household obligations: ball practice, laundry, a visit from his sister, lawn mowing, the usual.
 
Tonight is the night, though. The kids and all their phantoms and phantom ailments are spending the night next door. We are blessed with good health and a normal schedule. Nothing is standing in my way.
 
I am eager to see the shocked but pleased look on his face when he walks into the house, expecting nothing beyond the usual drama created by a household of three females, and instead, finding his wife alone, standing in the kitchen, smiling seductively, her body bare and her most sensual places covered by whipped cream. It will surely call to mind our wilder beginning, back when our passion for one another consumed rational thought, and led us to risky liaisons---in the bathroom of his boss’s house during the company Christmas party, on the side of the road halfway through a long road trip, in the woods next to the park where others were oohing and ahhing at the Fourth of July fireworks. We couldn’t get enough of each other back then, and I want some of that, even a little slice of that, now. I need to see that lust-crazed look in his eyes.
 
I have music playing low in the living room. Lilac-scented candles burn with a relaxed flicker throughout the house. I am standing, naked and exposed, in the kitchen, the whipped cream bottle in my hand. I even chose the low-fat kind, because I know he is watching his weight. I don’t want any pedestrian concerns to pinprick our night of bliss.
 
When I hear his car pull up in the drive, my heart begins to pound, my cheeks flush. With a grin, I give the container one more shake and then point it toward my breasts and press the nozzle. A perfect dollop squirts out, and I quickly repeat on the other breast and the triangle below. Even before I have finished the job, though, I feel the first dollop slowly sliding downward. I check and see that now both dollops, rather than forming a sexy white bikini, are refusing to adhere to my skin. The puffy white cream slips lower, drips on my stomach. I grab a dish towel, glancing fervently at the door. I swipe it across my breasts, remove the liquefying goo, and then quickly squirt two more dollops onto my chest. Now the triangle between my legs has become a deformed abomination of geometry. I use the dish towel to save the shape, ignoring its thinning viscosity. If it will just hold on for ten more goddamned seconds….
 
*********
Jason walks in the door, instantly alerted by the darkened house, the low music, and the scent of candles. His frazzled mood dissipates as he drops his briefcase in the entry hall and, with quizzical anticipation, steps around the corner to the source of whispered cursing. He finds his wife alone, standing in the kitchen, her face a mixture of shame and frustration, her body bare and covered in a mucousy substance. The cat is at her feet, licking up something from the floor.
 
As he stares at her in confusion, she stares back at him, and then he sees her lower lip begin to tremble. He goes to her and takes her in his arms, inexplicable sticky substance and all. Because he loves her. Then he stands back and appraises the woman before him and emits a muttered growl of desire. Because she is still the sexiest damn thing he has ever seen.
 

Author's Personal Information/Bio:
On occasion, Sherri Collins takes a break from her daily routine and spins a tale or two. The results of these diversions can be found in Bartleby Snopes, The Big Jewel, and Flashes in the Dark, among others.