Gunge Girl

The yogurt dribbling down the back of my pink dress sends shivers down my spine, shivers from cold and shivers from the memory of Abe dribbling it down my back last summer. I shut my eyes to trap the memory, then reach over for the bowl of strawberry-topped custard.

I hold the bowl in front of my pink dress. “Tell me what I want to know and this goes over my head.”

Abe, on the other end of our video chat, dilly-dallies but ends up telling me what I want to know. I tip the bowl, but at first I don’t feel anything. Then I feel the cold, first from the custard on the right side of my head, then from the strawberries on my left. The dessert reaches the edge of my hairdo where only a thin layer protects my head.

I shut my eyes to concentrate on the feel of custard dribbling over my right ear, down my cheek, onto my shoulder and then dividing to go down my back and into my cleavage. The strawberries are especially cold on my left ear, but they quickly drop onto my shoulder. Lacking the viscosity of the custard, the berries mostly fall to the floor.

When I set the empty bowl down, Abe notices the bowl of chocolate syrup. “What’s that?” he blurts through my computer, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.

“It’s for later, for a white bikini special.” He smiles from ear to ear. “But only if you’re a good boy,” I tell him. I run my finger along the edge of the bowl…