I want to impress my girl with my new Gucci underwear.
I race to the bedroom and get undressed before she makes it to the top of the stairs. She spends a half an hour in the bathroom. If it were any other night, I would be asleep by now. Some times I swear she stays in there that long on purpose.
I catch a glimpse of my new Gucci underwear in the mirror. They are red, hot, and damn sexy. I think they make my package look bigger too.
She brushes. She spits. She rinses, then spits again. She gargles 15 times and spits. She flushes the toilet for a third time. Silence. I hear the bathroom door handle rattle. I dive on to the bed. It squeaks and moans. I settle into the middle of the bed and lay spread eagle.
My new Gucci underwear glow in the dim light.
I hear her footsteps stop just outside the bedroom door. She gives it a tentative push, then changes her mind. I hear the creak of the stairs, and then the click of the kitchen light. A few seconds later, I hear the woompf of the refrigerator door open, bottles clink. Sloop. The fridge door shuts.
My new Gucci underwear are cool.
She will be up any second now. I yawn. I rest my eyes for a moment. I close my eyes and imagine I am the male model in the magazine I saw my new Gucci underwear in. The gorgeous blond in short shorts is there too. She has no shirt or bra on. She presses up against me. Finally some action. She likes my new Gucci underwear. The smile on her face says so.
“Harold,” she whispers. “Harold move over you’re taken up too much space. I get all philosophical on her, “how much space do you need?” Something sharp pokes me in the ribs. “Ouch,” I groan. I roll on my side and pull the covers over my new Gucci underwear. Tomorrow they will be just another pair of funky underwear.