Cranky

it is a sweltering day, the air conditioning is bust and you are cranky as hell.

you stand at the sink, elbow deep in washing up. i decide to be a pest and come up behind you and squeeze your bum. you snarl under your breath and try to ignore me but i am full of mischeif today and i try to lift your skirt. you tell me to “fucking grow up!” i press myself against you so you can feel how stiff i am. “and you can take that fucking thing away!” you snap and i laugh at your anger which only makes it worse.

“oh come on hon,” i emplore, “just a quickie?” you spin round and glare at me, eyes ablaze, holding a half washed wooden spoon threateningly. i reach out to grab one of your breasts and you rap my knuckles with the spoon and tell me i’m “asking for a fucking slap mister!” i dare you to, not entirely sure you won’t and pull again at your skirt, pushing myself against you, making sure you can feel what you are doing to me. you make all kinds of pathetic excuses – you’re too busy – its the middle of the day – you haven’t had a shower – the kids will be home soon – blah blah blah. i can feel you folding though, see you fighting a smile. you tell me that you hate me and we fuck right there against the sink, rattling the pots and pans, not undressing, you not even taking off the marigold gloves.

after, you ask me sweetly to help with the chores, “not a fucking chance” i laugh, doing up my zip. the frying pan brings out a lump on my head as big as an egg.