Though I lapped his skin clear of residual moistness, he hardly seemed satisfied. He executed a series of annoyed huffs, left the room and returned with a miniature parcel, the size of an After Eight, but shiny as a candy wrapper. He fumbled to open it, an exploit of diplomatic expertise, how to tear it open like a brute, yet preserve the precious contents. I wondered what quaint morsel could he have the delicacy to transport, imagining a refined rarity.

Whatever it was, it unravelled like a troll’s tongue, was transparently pink and at first interpretation, disappointing. Like a dainty stocking, he rolled it upon his member to enhance its natural, faded pink hue. I was astounded at the intricate pains one will undertake for vanity, when I understood its raison d’être. It was a rubber casing equipped with a built-in nipple. What a wonderful gadget, I exulted, recognizing his willingness to play. How clever, out of his impressively stout member, he had concocted a baby bottle.

I drew with force, straining my lungs, but could not retrieve a drop of milk. His face contorted with pain. I excused myself, withdrew to the closet, and removed a needle from the Best Western sewing kit my mother had offered me as a last minute farewell gift.

“What the hell you doin’?” he jerked.

“It’s to pierce the point, it won’t come out.”

“Give it time, lady! An’ take it easy with y’r damn rabbit teeth!”

“Shall we boil the nipple for fun?”

“Are you out’a y’r frigin’ mind?”

He rolled over to me and put the baby bottle in my face. I was a good sport and accepted it, but again the unpleasant rubbery taste without the recompense of a dairy extract dampened my eagerness after reasonable effort on my part. Not only did my jaw ache, but the more I pumped, the more I noticed his thing grew limp.

I moved it politely aside and he had the nerve to say it was my fault rather than admit the deficiency of his device.

“You’re supposed ta suck the whole thing, not just the damn tip! I got ten inches you kin appreciate, ya know, case ya didn’t notice!”

If the rubber cylinder were adapted to his piston, agitating the nipple would have sufficed to tap liquid according to the laws of air pressure.

“Main course!” I avoided a fight.

“My dick is on fire,” he wailed.

He pivoted himself to expose his profile. It lifted extraordinarily high, I’d say about eleven o’clock, a missile about to take off into the sky.

“I’ve got something for it,” I promised from the kitchen.

“Move it, baby, my balls’re gonna explode t’outer space!”

I hurried to him, raised his legs in the air, slid the nappy back into place, then massaged his crotch and buttocks with cream cheese, using my thumbs and chin.

“Whatever gets y’r motor goin’ baby doll, make my day, I’ll make y’r meal …”

I sprinkled on a layer of curry, massaging it to an even mustard colour with my tongue. My mind dwelled on Harry’s potty-training problem. An emptiness I’d felt since childhood, a sort of ravenous hunger grew to an excessive state I’d not yet known. I heard hedonistic grunts escape my throat.