Remember when you were young, and your mom was baking, and you got to lick the beater, whether it was batter or icing.
I’m no longer a little girl. Now I’m the baker. But I still like to lick the beater.
I know that you’re looking at me. Being dressed scantily helps. I make a big show of licking the chocolate-covered whisk. When I’ve tongued it clean, I hold it out to you, elbows still on the counter, butt still arched out.
“Whip me with this,” I implore.
The wire implement hurts my tender tushy, terribly, deliciously.
I notice that you are like meringue; the more you whip, the larger you get. Your pants resemble a circus tent, one big pole holding it up. I unzip your fly, take it out.
Now I get to lick my beater, even tastier than before.