My Babe ⚡️

My stomach does a little backflip when I see her big work truck turn the corner and slow down in front of my house. Yeah, I’m standing at the window like a puppy. She always takes her time, I love her in her work clothes, puffing on her vape as she walks up my snowy front steps. More than once I’ve watched her and thought out loud “god damn I want to fuck her.” Which is followed by a smug little smile, because, I’m about to. I wonder for a second what my neighbours think. Not that I give a fuck, but her truck out front is starting to be a regular thing. Lucky me.

Her entrance is always met with the excited leaps and whines of my wild dog, who loves Max unabashedly. She wrestles with her and gets her riled up, I don’t blame the pooch for being in love. My dog is officially a problem child, her energy is more than most folks are looking for. (That’s a nice way to say it.) People are generally overwhelmed, turned off, or at least intimidated by my long-legged head-butting kissy-faced beast. Max is undaunted, she leans in, scoops that gangly pup up in her arms and holds her tight. “She’s so cuuuuute,” she says she while the noodle-of-a-dog bucks and wriggles joyously, covering her her face in kisses. The toothy beast grins, so do I as I watch them.

I unbuckle her work belt, her hips, traced with ink, lift for me as I tug on her pants and her thermal leggings. Winter layers. “It’s cold out there!” she exclaims, and she laughs when I get one of her legs loose before she frees the other. She fumbles with my strappy lingerie and I fumble with her tight sports bra, eager hands that want to learn. I smirk wondering if the crew of dudes she supervises knows where she disappears to, if she gets razzed when she comes back smelling like me. I like our stolen time, she calls me her treat, her fancy cupcake, hers.

I am hers, even if I belong to no one. I like to fit myself into this shape, something pleasing to her, something she needs, something she adores. I want to be so good for her, I want make her happy. I want to see that unabashed smile on her face, the one where her laugh lines crinkle and her eyes squinch up and I know she’s stopped thinking about anything else except my legs wrapped around her.

In 4 months I’ve gone from fearful to foolishly hopeful, and I blame her. Even my horoscope has been telling me “nothing ominous is on the horizon” and “you’ve worked hard for this, enjoy it.” It’s strange feeling myself thaw, feeling possibilities open up, feeling my hesitations fall away. She sees my faults with generous eyes, my anxiety doesn’t faze her, “the world needs worriers,” she says. She reads my love notes and calls me her soft girl. She’s a babe of few words but the ones she chooses are comforting and unsolicited, calming my quick heart. It comes naturally to her. She holds me, squeezing me close as she breathes me in, the tightness in my chest evaporates into this warm blue hum. My worries melt like snowflakes on her tongue.