When I awoke, a slat of a sunbeam was
shining through my window. It tickled my nose and pulled my irises
east – to a bough speckled with festive birds, chirping and
laughing. My alarm went off and I sprung out of bed and hopped
downstairs, ready to embrace each and every forsaken soul. But first,
I thought, I must check the mail.
Lo and behold: a yellow envelope. A
letter from a friend bearing an embrace separated by a sea or so. I
held the letter close to my breast and threw open my front door to
inhale the nascent birthday morn'.
'Yes, it must be my birthday', I
thought, perhaps aloud. Blueberry sunshine and nymph breath and
iridescent particles. I was with the world and the world was with me.
I was with the world and I closed my eyes and thought about poached
eggs and fleece throws and other birthday thoughts.
A ring – the telephone.
“Yello?”
“Hello Steven, how are you?”
A thousand tiny pink images flashed
shiny in my mind. A call from Melissa. It absolutely truly must be my
birthday.
“Oh, I'm grand, Melissa.” The
images formed a point and pricked my coccyx. “It's my birthday.”
“Oh Steven! How wonderful! I always
thought your birthday was in January!”
“For some reason, people always make
that mistake.”
Melissa laughed a distinguished string
of pearls into the receiver. “Oh Steven, please! You don't have to
try to spare me from embarrassment – I am used to it. I am always
thinking mixed things.
Well then, very much a happy birthday
to you. We must celebrate”
“Thank you. But really, I'm not the
celebrating kind.”
“We really must. We just
must.”
“Well, the kettle is boiling.”
“Goodbye Steven. Ring me soon and
let's celebrate in high style.”
“Of course, Melissa.”
The phone clicked and I clung to the
tips of her straight black hair that I'm sure was crushed against the
receiver. Then I turned my mind. The room was still glistening. There
was only one thing to do – bake a cake.
Everything in the bowl and two yellow
yolks smiling back at me. I was wearing trousers and a sports coat.
Birthdays are fancy. I used my forearm to stir the mixture happy. It
yellowed until it glowed in the absence of its egg eyes. Life is
easier when you don't see things coming. I pulled up my sock. It was
grey with a green stripe. Birthdays are times for unexpected socks. I
took a pinch of cinnamon and spread it on my forearm. But it was
Melissa's forearm. I was aroused and the head of my penis pressed
against my zipper. For some reason I laughed. Birthdays make me
giddy.
350 degrees kissed my brow as I put my
cake in the oven to coagulate. In the meantime, I set to mixing up
some caramel toffee frosting. Brown sugar and eggs and milk wept into
a curdle; This was going to be a sticky affair.
As often happens on charmed days, days
of grand beginnings and infinite action potential, things were
falling into place like there was One Way. A Goofy Movie was
practically fingering the DVD player. In it went. Onto to the plush
recliner I went, toffee frosting in hand. Off of my body my pants
were. My smile was, as it were, irrevocably wide and ever planted. If
a few drops of sticky toffee gooey caramel sludge drippled on to my
half-hard cock, who could fault me on this blessed day? The viscous
substance inched too slowly around the circumference of my cock. So
slow that it invited interruption –
A knock – a guest.
“Hello? Steven? Hellllo!” –
Melissa.
My pants were up and at 'em. I felt the
sweet goo spread against and into the cotton fiber of my underwear.
As reliable as dawn itself, the first birthday mess.
“Steven? Helllo! You must be in there
somewhere.”
“Yes, Melissa, I'm here. One moment.”
An open door – Melissa.
“Really, you shouldn't have come. I
never celebrate –”
“Exactly. That's why I came. Because
you wouldn't have.”
A ring – the timer.
Involuntarily – “My cake!”
“Oh, how nice.” She said, dark
purple aura dripping, staining my carpet.
* * *
She set the table while I busied myself
over the frosting. The back of my knife grazed the top of the cake –
her inner thigh – and created a flat golden plane. My mother taught
me how to bake. She raised me in the kitchen.
“It looks lovely, Steven, almost
professional. Did you go to culinary school?”
“No, I had a mother.”
Melissa didn't laugh. She didn't even
look like she thought about laughing out of courtesy.
“Steven?”
“Yes, Melissa?”
“Where is the restroom?”
“Just down the hall and to the left.”
“Thank you. Excuse me.” She eyed
the cake, squinting into saccharine. “Exquisite.” And padded off
to the bathroom to fix her lipstick.
It was done, in that birthday way. Two
tiers and light brown, the cake shone like the birds on the morning
bough. A man of my age can't dally in petit fours or sugar statue
accoutrements. I edged the top and bottom circumferences with a
modest white buttercream piping. Melissa was lingering in her gone. I
wondered if she was contemplating the prospect of sleeping with me
out of a mixture of pity and birthday-induced affection.
I put the cake on her seat. The
impending moment was born the minute I opened my eye to the slanted
radiance of false rebirth. I could see her dress billowing out as her
pale buttocks made gentle contact with my cake. I could see it in
perfect birthday clarity.
Melissa padded back, lips curled into
cat whiskers. She didn't even look down, She looked up at me with
down eyelids as she bent her body and descended in a formal pivot.
Then her eyes widened into a scream and I felt the sticky frosting
insinuate itself into all of her feminine crevices, catching black
hairs and moist. I felt my cock harden and my hand felt my cock
harden. Watching spongy chunks fly laterally like a symphony, I came
hard in sympathetic crescendo.
“Happy birthday to me.” I
whispered.
