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Flash Fiction Erotica
"In the Summertime," erotic lit by Phedra Johnson
It's hot. Hot in the shade. Devil selling sno-cones on the corner hot. Mr. Squiddy and I are melting into the unmade bed. He's stripped down to a Huggies. I'm in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. We're staring at the ceiling with our mouths hanging open. About 2 days ago the air-conditioner said, "Fuck it." Our slum lord said he's on his way...but I swear I heard Bill Withers' "Harlem" start to play when he said that line. A fly just buzzed and died. Time looks sluggish and uncomfortable in the corner of the room. When we blink I can hear the clicking noise. Mr. Squiddy has a fat, round belly. It slowly rises and falls as he begins to drift off. While he sleeps I unfold his clenched fist and smell his palm. Moist and unadulterated baby smell. His hair clings to his head in limp ringlettes. His upper lip is dappled with tiny beads of sweat. My over-cooked angel. I kiss him on the forehead and peel myself off of the bed. Dragging into the kitchen, I crack open the freezer and reach for a popsicle. As I hastily unwrap my frozen confection, I notice a loose kitchen floor tile. Poking it with my toe it scrapes against loose grout. The noise is unnerving. I jam my cherry popsicle into my cheek and bend over to investigate. The tile is loose. I get onto my knees and poke my fingernail underneath a corner. The tile is loose. Beneath it a few sugar ants trod in an orderly row, oblivious to the heat. The tile is loose and I'm oblivious. I'm on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor and he's come home. My popsicle has started to melt and the sweet juice is running down my chin. He's home after twelve hours of driving an 18-wheeler with no air-conditioner. His work shirt damply clings to his chest and his boxers wring with sweat. And I'm my hands and knees in the kitchen. I don't see him, but I know he's home when the hem of my shirt flips over my head. My popsicle hits the floor and is pinned between my breasts. The loose tile is cool against my cheek. His hands are rough against my exposed flesh. I had opened the freezer seeking relief. He opens me. Fingers fumble against a belt buckle and grip my hips. I hear a metallic jingle and my head snaps back. Suddenly I can see--freed from the restraint of my stained tee. I'm covered in cherry popsicle juice and a sheen of salty sweat. Soon he's covering me. In kisses. In sharp bites. My hips lift and we're in unison. The heat disappears and the loose tile is forgotten. Long work days float away. I can smell him. A mellow musky odor grinding into my skin. I'm a soft puddle on the kitchen floor. He's vigorously wiping me up. Ten fingernails scrape his hard day away. Low gentle moans replace that heavy lifting. I'm as light as a feather when he gathers me into his arms. The laundry room door is kicked open. The icy lid of the washing machine startles my fevered flesh. Someone's hip or hand or knee hits the dial and the washer begins to fill. We slow stroke until--the spin cycle. The savage vibrations buckle his legs and clatter against my clit. I hear crying. Who is crying? The baby is awake, but my eyes are filled with tears...
Originally Published February 2007: Winter Heat
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