Page 77 of Grumpy Puck

I give everyone snacks.Lenin asks for seconds and then thirds.

Tovarisch, the corruption of the rat proletariat is now complete.Next thing you know, I’ll be craving McNuggets, investing in the capitalist stock market, and watching The Kardashians.

“Hey,” Michael says, walking into the room.“Dinner is ready.”

I follow him to the kitchen, where I taste hissolyanka—which vaguely reminds me of a stew but with pickles and olives, a flavor profile that combines with the other ingredients to create a surprisingly delicious result.

“What movie should we watch today?”Michael asks as we finish eating.

I shrug.“How about you choose?”

I honestly don’t care, so long as we do afterward what we did last night.

“How aboutChip 'n Dale: Rescue Rangers?”he asks.

“Why?”It’s oddly unsexy.Is he trying to avoid what happened last night?

“I thought you’d like it,” he says.“It’s got rats.”

“No, it doesn’t.They’re chipmunks.A different species altogether.”And not nearly as cute.

“Okay, we can watch something else.Maybe something with Russian spies?”

“No,Chip 'n Daleis fine.”A movie with Russian spies will no doubt have a hot female lead à la Scarlett Johansson, and that will make me too jealous to enjoy myself.

We cozy up with each other on the couch, and it makes me so horny you’d think the movie featured Chippendales, the strip club, instead of detective rodents.

When the credits roll, Michael clears his throat.“That was surprisingly good.Right?”

Nodding, I turn to him.“Ireallyenjoyed myself.”

“You think you did.”His black eyes gleam.“But in reality, your enjoyment is only about to begin.”With that, he picks me up, carries me into his bedroom, and fucks me so properly and thoroughly that I might as well admit it.

I’m completely and utterly ruined for other men.

The days that follow are blissfully similar.I wake up to a naked Michael exercising, join him, have a dozen orgasms, go to work, enjoy a home-cooked meal and a movie, and then more orgasms follow.The only negative is that as time passes, I dread his meeting my family more and more.I also illogically dread the resolution of my stalker situation, as that could bring about the end of this blissful coexistence.

“You know, we don’t have to meet my family tonight,” I tell Michael as we drive home from work on Friday.“I’m cravingvareniki,and my mom doesn’t know how to make them.”

He frowns.“Didn’t you tell your parents to expect us?”

“Sure, but?—”

“No buts,” he says sternly.“You told them I’d be there, and I won’t offend them by flaking.”

“Oh, they’ll be sure that it’s my fault,” I say.

He pulls up to a flower shop.“I can’t take any chances.”

With a sigh, I ask him why we’re getting flowers.

“For your parents, of course,” he says.“I’m also going to get a box of candy.”

“Oh?”

My guess is the candy is symbolic.To slightly paraphrase Forrest Gump, life around Michael is like a box of chocolates.

You never know how many orgasms you’re going to get.

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