I was rushing out the door to rendezvous with my man at our cabin when he called and asked me to grab some tax documents. When I found the file he wanted in the cabinet, I partially snagged the file behind it as well and its contents slide out all over the office floor.
Annoyed, I reached down to shove all the papers back together and noticed the name on the tab .
It was my mine and it was written in my man's script.
I looked down at the top sheet of paper and saw the words Act One on the heading. It was the first page of a play I wrote for him for Christmas a few years ago.
A role play.
I was the melancholy erotic dancer who wrapped my legs and longing around a stripper pole (I improvised with the log beam under the loft). He was the lonely graduate student who had been dragged to the strip club by his office buddies. That was the year we almost burned the turkey.
Lying askew at the bottom of Act One was an unlabled, lumpy, legal-sized envelope. I picked it up, intrigued by it’s heft and bulk and just about had an orgasm when I realized what it was.
My magnetic poetry set. The erotic version. It's been MIA.
Oh the sexy prose we composed! But we had to dismantle our refrigerator smut when his family came for a visit.
I ripped open the envelope and let a few words fall in my hand. I couldn’t help myself and started pushing them around on the carpet.
It’s about to get dirty.
Everyone should have one.