The bulge in his pajama pants is growing under my gaze, and when I give him my “come hither” gesture he does so with a sheepish smile.
“What’s that in your pants?” I ask when he reaches my side, wiggling my eyebrows lasciviously before reaching out to stroke him through the soft flannel.
He looks down. Looks at me. Smiles. Looks down again, watching his erection lengthen through the fabric under my touch. Looks at me again.
“Oysters,” he says.
“You have oysters in your pants?!”
He grins. “I’ve been eating oysters,” he explains, looking adorably confused at my burst of laughter.
“I didn’t ask you what you’ve been eating. I asked you what was in your pants!”
“But… Oysters,” he tells me, as though I know what he means.
(And I do know what he means. But seriously? Oysters?!)
“So you have oyster pants.”
“We make a great pair, you and I,” I say with a chuckle, fondling his ‘oyster’. “Stinky Legs and Oyster Pants.”
. . .
Whatever sexiness was going to be in this moment is long gone. My imagination has now gone on to the various possibilities of taking this show on the road. I mean, Stinky Legs and Oyster Pants sounds like a steampunk dueling fiddle duo. I can just hear it, can’t you? And now, the radio announcer’s voice booms grandiosely, LIVE in our studios we have Stinky Legs and Oyster Pants performing – acoustic! – their Top Ten Dixieland smash, Runaway Vagina. Take it away, SLOP!
. . .