When his birthday rolls around in September, we’re not officially living together or anything. But one of our favorite things is to wake up next to each other, so most nights it’s real hard to think of reasons why he should go home to a twin bed in his mom’s basement. On the morning of the tenth I awake from a suddenly very vivid s*x dream to a guilty-eyed Ben with a mouthful of my d**k. “It’s my birthday,” he reminds me. “You said I could eat whatever I want. I want to eat this.”
I shift onto my back and grab a fistful of his hair, shifting my weight from one side to the other until we’re rocking to the same rhythm. “Well then, happy birthday,” I say, and I f**k his face until he’s drunk his fill.
I’m nobody’s dietician, and I’m not a cop: Ben can eat whatever he wants any old day. Cert
