Harry met me for lunch today and we ordered a pizza - we ended up having an impormptu devil's three way with the pizza delivery boy until sauce got into "no-no" parts which led to a halt on the naughty action at hand as well as "fun with garlic sauce."
I do enjoy men that smell of expensive cologne and garlic... :)
Back to reality - Harry met me for lunch today since he is still studying like a madman for his upcoming "MUST-PASS-OR-ELSE" test. After a quick meal at Wendy's he walked me to the car and opened my door, waited for my rolls to pass the threshold and then gently slammed the door shut.
"I want ice cream," I said before his jean-clad ass could even hit the suede insert on his Audi seats.
"Okay - from where?" I have no clue how I got to be so plentiful.
"McDonald's" I said and off we went to sit in a line for twenty-five minutes for me to get my sweet tooth on.
"Here," Harry said, handing me the ginormous white mound of frozen dairy treat.
I took it - and frowned. And pouted. And thrust it back at him. "Too much ice cream. Eat it." I said, practically shoving it into his ever-lengthening and oddly-ruddy goatee.
"Fine." With two big bites he had eaten the majority of the ice cream away. Handing it back to me, he kept one eye on me and one eye on the road. "Now what's wrong?"
I was sitting in my seat, face screwed up and staring at the still-too-big ice cream cone. Without saying a word I thrust it back at him and crossed my arms.
"Are you kidding me?" He put the entire ice cream cone in his mouth and pulled out a nubbin of dairy sitting atop the cone (which was really all I wanted).
"Wow," I said, wide-eyed. "You should've been a porn star. "
His face turned red, he guffawed and I watched as he did a quick calculation of how much it would cost to clean cheap ice cream off the upholstery of his car versus how much pleasure he get out of killing his wife on the side of Route 60.
"You bitch!" he swore as he managed not to spew the contents of his mouth on to the steering wheel, window, windshield... "You called me a porn star! And a gay one at that!"
I couldn't breathe. I was laughing hysterically and sputtering and trying NOT to drop the remainder of the cone in his car.
We pulled up outside my work and I got out after carefully, slowly and deliberately, eating the rest of the cone.
"You better not blog about this," Harry warned me. "My throat still hurts!" he said - which only made me laugh harder and run up the concrete stairs.
Moral of the story? If you're gonna call your husband a porn star - make sure to get it right -- or sit far enough away that he can't retaliate! :)
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