by Alan Garth
“Tifford Pistle! Roll over here and shag me senseless.”
“Patience, Mola, my peppercorn. I haven’t finished supper yet,” said Tiff. Each plosive launched crumbs of blueberry muffin into the darkness.
“You’ll not refuse me. I’ll grind you down,” said Mola, and reached out.
Tifford and Immolata Pistle had arranged an almost-alfresco night away from teenage children to reinvigorate their relationship. Tight inside the tent, they wriggled like supersize fleshfly larvae, sparking static in the gloom as nylon nightwear and sleeping bags got caught up in the ungainly frottage.
“What are you waiting for, Tiff?”
“Dumpling, I, ah, appear to have lost my libido.”
“You what? How’ll you find it in the dark? I told you to bring a torch.”
“Ah, no, my lardlolly, I mean . . . my little boy doesn’t want to grow up tonight.”
“Your—? Well, use your bloody fingers then, and hurry. I’m gagging for it.”
“Perhaps if I could just locate that chocolate bar—”
The ripping of the tent zip interrupted Tiff’s fumblings, which were illuminated by a Mag-Lite beam in the hands of their eldest. “What are you two up to out here in the garden?”
“Enda, I said stay indoors this evening!” said Tiff, his face alight.
Mola’s cackles overtook him. “Oh, Tiff, you’re a picture!”
*shamping n. half-hearted camping [etymol.: portmanteau of sham and camping; cf. glamping, gramping, etc.]
3 comments:
I had to laugh at the image of muffins flying out of mouths and horrible, ungainly and desperate attempts for an intimate moment stolen away from the children. It's like a characterization of everything we never want to be (but probably usually are.)
Love the language. Put me in mind of some of Chester Himes' best comic smut.
Very funny.
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