"Venti vanilla latte." 

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Cover image photo: Valeriia Miller from Pexels

Starbucks.

It’s late afternoon and I’m here with my laptop, procrastinating like a pro as always. It’s crowded. A gaggle of middle-school kids chatters away to my left, clamoring over their table like monkeys. To my right, some muscly dude’s pheromones have me distracted. We take turns pretending not to check each other out.

Until YOU walk in, lady, in those fucking yoga pants.

Mid-40s, I’d wager, glistening with a sheen of sweat. No makeup. Exhausted, with bags under your eyes and that trademark “I dare you, asshole” look on your face. Probably just came from the gym. My eyes widen, glued as you walk past and approach the register. You heave a sigh, undoing your frazzled ponytail only to tie it right back up in a messy straw-colored bun. You look like a fucking bitch.

“Venti vanilla latte.”

The barista types in your order, timid with fear. I suck in my lower lip and gnaw at it absentmindedly, feeling like a degenerate while I drink in your details.

Your ASS in those PANTS, stranger. I bet you think you’re fat and the thought of that irks me. Fuck no. You were formed in the Garden of Earthly Delights. Round and plump, a bit taller than me, with a rippling hint of jiggly cellulite peeking through that skin-tight fabric. Saliva floods my mouth and I shift as my clit covertly sings to life. Magic sparkles all the way inside to the darkest depths of my pussy and beyond, licking and nibbling at the seed of my being.

Lady: I want to spank you. Let me put this another way: I want to give you a spanking. I’ll say it again: I want to live the rest of my life with the peace of mind that YOUR bouncing, chubby ass has been properly, thoroughly spanked scarlet by ME.

Oh, the questions that plague me, swirling through my mind as I dip the bag in and out of my tea.

Has anyone ever spanked you? I’m not talking about your dad or some fed-up relative. No nooooooo. I am referring to the making of love.

I wonder if you’re bisexual. And if you are, bisexual bisexual, or put-on-a-show-to-please-menfolk-at-parties bisexual?

Can we shut the door and lock out the boys, with their grabby hands and puppy-like impatience? Their obsession with what it looks like, rather than what it is? That maddening tendency to make everything we want about them and their dicks twenty-four-goddamn-seven? Fuck no, Madam. This is about YOU. I want to penetrate your soul and make you come thrice.

Yoga pants. I’m a certified teacher, as it were. No foolin’. Wanna practice at my place? I’ll eye your form as I instruct, walking circles around you while you arch your back into cow pose. Crawl up behind you and peel down that fabric, revealing all the little details I crave to see. Close my mouth over your cunt and lap at your clit with the flat of my tongue while you shake and shatter into itty bitty pieces.

I wonder if you shave down there. Sure hope not. All those tiny beads of nectar imbued with your essence, caught in the forest of your fluff: Give them to me. I wish to consume them. Drown in them to absorb their powers, licking celestial femininity from my fingers like maple syrup. Mmm, pancakes. Stay the night and I’ll make you breakfast in nothing but heels while you lay about lazily scrolling on your phone. How do you like your eggs, Yoga Pants?

No ma’am, you are not misunderstanding. You grasp my meaning completely. I say we burn down everything they told us we should be.

How hard would you want it, over my knee? Perhaps you’re a masochist like me. I’ll start out nicely. Polite like a casual inquiry. But over time, believe me, you’ll squirm and flinch as those thick, succulent cheeks grow pinker. Would you whimper, I wonder, when I swat the backs of your thighs? Would you fight me when I grab your wrist and pin it to your tailbone? When I throw a leg over yours to keep you in place, demanding stillness?

Am I strong enough to restrain you? If we wrestle, who wins? Shall we get scrappy with it? Fair warning you should heed: I fight dirty, my dear.

I’ll spread you apart, too. Expose what’s hidden. Sensitive crevices. Folds. Ruffles. That dewy, supple fairy ring haloed with the promise of salvation. Velvety slickness wrapped in deliverance. Let. Me. Climb. Inside.

Bend over and I’ll hump you from behind, digging my nails into your plump, meaty flesh like teeth while I undulate, seeking with my mound. 'Penis envy,' they might say. Fuck ‘em. Let them giggle and twitter with their piddling whispers. Let ‘em write home about it while we redefine the divine. This is my fucking treehouse. No Boyz Allowed.

Implements. If I laid them all out, which would you choose? Belts, paddles, canes, switches, brushes, straps, sticks, whips. What’s your pleasure, stranger? What speaks to your skin? I say we sample them all.

Swat. Swish. SMACK. Whap whap whap whap whap...

I can hear it now. “Ouch! Oww! It hurts...”

Yes it will.

Does ‘no’ mean no when it tumbles from your lips? Or does ‘no’ mean ‘for the love of all that was created holy, hold me down and give me more of what makes me feel real’? “Please don’t! Stop!” or “Please! Don’t stop!” Which will I be dealing with, exactly? Teach me your language, stranger, for I am a meticulous note-taker. Forgive me if I spill ink on the sheets. Oopsie daisy...

“VENTI VANILLA LATTE!”

Your order’s ready. You swipe it up and rush out as briskly as you entered. Places to go, people to see. In that final moment, you catch me, drooling and ogling your aura. Shit. For a smidgen of a glance, you eye me in confusion. I’m simultaneously grateful and crushed that telepathy’s not a thing.

Looking away, I’m flooded with guilt as you breeze out the door. My gaze needs somewhere to go and for the first time all day, Mr. Muscles and I lock eyes. Caught again, twice in two seconds. He sees what I see. Jesus.

I stare intently at my screen, blushing and perspiring, trying to block out the vision of you seared across my synapses. A lady doesn’t daydream or speak of such things. Surely not. Never. Not me.