That popsicle? No Karen. Not your lemon taste.
Among other things, I pretended not to know him. And he was cute at the ice cream booth. A middle-aged man with no taste. Dressed like a college teacher. Proud Member of the Wifey-dunno-fuck-anymore Club. Standing in line for ice cream. So, I don’t know him? Let’s pretend.
“My name, Lolita,” I said — badly showing that urgent need for sucking. I tried some lines — as ugly as obvious — to make it tasty. Creamy as suck. “Do you want to lick my ice cream?” Awfully clear. “Is this the tip of your cold stick?” Let’s try a “what do you want me to lick?”
He asks me the price even if he knows I am cheap. Free in fact. He asks just to whore me, push me away, humiliate me. He like that. I totally crave that. I want him to do it publicly. Do you like my breasts? Let me show them to you. Watch. “Ice man, did I make you uncomfortable?”
Sissy asks the price even if he knows I am cheap.
Watch this. I have an ice pop too. Do you like my little stick? Oh no, Karen doesn’t need to know that, Silly. Come with me. Yeah, with your popsicle! We all want a pop stick. Yeah. And he tries a “Did you know? Popsicles are good for morning sickness and keep you hydrated during sex?”
And he shows me his liquid-based frozen snack on a stick. This teacher is too much. “Milk it,” he tells me. Isn’t that what I am actively doing? I am not really sure I want his ice cream. Hot. Hot. It’s horribly hot outside. I miss the golden shower he gave me this morning. I want it liquid.
He holds back his cream. He certainly knows my taste. At least my favorite flavor. He knows I’m addicted to his pee. Since I couldn’t drink it all at once, I started freezing it at dawn. Now, pee on me. Again. I want that golden nectar licked right off your stick. Yeah — not as fresh though.