Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Honeypot

Just one more pull, then we bolted. The bees were out to get us. Normally contending with bears for their sweet honey, they didn’t suppose Jim and I were terribly intimidating targets. Bears have stubby legs when they’re bipedal, but they run fast on the ground. Jim was a strong runner, but by then I had already set into my chubby teenage years, and every second of that afternoon, where I could see nothing more than the back of Jim’s shirt in front of me the sound of angry suicidal pricks to my rear, was sheer terror. It was a pure rush of adrenaline, followed by endorphins to treat the pain. The bears didn’t need to run though; their fur was more than enough to avoid stings. My old Lincoln was our equivalent. It was a steel fortress on wheels.

“We made it. I don’t know if we can keep doing this though. It’s a lot of effort for something we could just buy. In fact, we could probably find lube that was even better for our lovemaking if we just looked.”

“Don’t you start that shit on me again, Jim. You know I like to be slathered in honey, and I need it fresh. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to face the judgmental store clerk who’s ringing up fifteen honey bears every week. I won’t be thought of as a pervert!”


“It is much better to be a pervert than to be thought of as one!”

“But they have self checkout now!”

“And what happens when something goes wrong on one of those? You have to wait around until a clerk is there to help you, while the line of angry people in an unreasonable hurry stares you and your honey down. I won’t have it.”

“You’re a wonderfully odd man, you know that?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

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