Harry and I got into bed last night and I immediately squealed like a pre-pubescent hyenia - Harry had expertly managed to contort his body and place both of his large, size 13 feet square on the small of my naked back.
It was on.
For the next thirty minutes, while "Miami Ink" played across the tv in the background, Harry and I yelped, wrestled and banged our heads on the brown cherry headboard. If we were less clothed, it could've been more fun - but there we were - I in my pajamas and he clad only in gray man panties.
Finally, we come to the end - I'm exhausted, snuggled in his armpit and enjoying the after-glow of physical exertion - or am just red from the Indian Burns now covering 3/4 of my exposed skin. I go to put my charred arm over his middle when he flinches.
I pop my fuzzy head up to look at him questioningly.
"Ya know - you're lucky I don't hit you more!" he said. I stared. I knew what he meant - he's jumpier than a cat on the Fourth of July - but it was the way he said it.
"What? You mean 'step off bee-otch, or I'll smack ya down!' ? Or maybe 'you's lucky I don't pop you one right in the mouth!' Is that it? Hmm?" He erupted into a fit of giggles in which he accidentally smacked me on the head.
And pulled my hair.
I'm planning my retaliation tonight involving: cat treats, a kitty fishing pole and my furry comrade. Oh yes. It will be an eventful evening. Heh Heh Heh.