My lover is on his way. I know this because my mom just yelled downstairs, “Lillian, your lover is on his way.” I live in my parents’ basement because I love them and they love me. We can just add onto the house if we decide we need more space for bulk Fruit Roll-Ups or whatever.
I ready myself, shaving my legs, arms, and butt. Then, I apply my perfume. I am 32, which means I am old enough to spray a cloud of Britney Spears Circus perfume and then walk through it, letting the little droplets of perfume shower my bouncy curls and my big adult boobs. Finally, I rub the accompanying scented lotion on my hands because I have definitely grown out of my eczema at this point.
I hear a knock at the door. Titillated, I down the rest of my red wine — I’m always drinking red wine because it tastes just like communion grape juice — and flit to greet my lover. I’m always flitting.
I flit up the stairs to the front door and peek through the peephole. My parents let me paint the door baby blue because it’s Justin Timberlake’s favorite color, as reported by the book 101 Amazing Justin Timberlake Facts by Frankie Taylor and Jack Goldstein. I open the door wide while also leaning sexily against the doorframe, accentuating my nice boobs. “Hello,” I say to my lover. “Welcome to my home.”
“Hello,” Orlando Bloom pants eagerly, striding into my home in full costume as Legolas from the first 20 minutes of The Fellowship of the Ring that I was allowed to watch. I take him wordlessly by the hand. We descend the fireman’s pole that leads to my basement bedroom, which my dad was actually able to install pretty easily using a free how-to guide from Pottery Barn Teen. “Careful,” Orlando Bloom moans cautiously. “Don’t snag your round grown-up boobs on that fireman’s pole.”
We slide down the fireman’s pole and land in my bedroom. Orlando Bloom whistles, impressed. “I like your old-fashioned popcorn machine,” he says, gesturing to my old-fashioned popcorn machine. “Thank you,” I say. “Please, help yourself to some old-fashioned popcorn as I slip into something more comfortable for my huge boobs.” I give Orlando Bloom a wry smile as I coyly slip behind the bohemian beaded curtain that I got on sale at the Battlefield Mall.
Behind the beaded curtain, I flit out of my hooded shark robe and into a T-shirt emblazoned with Scooby Doo’s Mystery Machine and the slogan ORIGINAL LOVE MACHINE. I step out from behind the curtain. Orlando Bloom staggers backward, clutching his chest.
“I love that T-shirt,” he says tenderly.
“It’s from Limited Too,” I purr erotically.
“Oh, at the Battlefield Mall?” Orlando Bloom asks.
“Yes, exactly,” I reply.
I clap my hands and “Smooth” by Carlos Santana featuring Rob Thomas plays on a loop. Orlando Bloom tenderly tucks my hair behind my ears, slicking down the greasies and smoothing out my middle part, then licking his palms and tugging on the bottoms of the hairs to make them a little straighter.
“Let’s get down to beeswax,” Orlando Bloom murmurs hungrily. He parts my lips with his hand. “Close your eyes,” he whispers before putting something tantalizingly sweet into my mouth.
“Oh my,” I groan. “Is that…”
“That’s right,” Orlando Bloom whispers. “It’s a Fruit Roll-Up from the Walmart SuperCenter a few miles up the road.”
I begin to shake uncontrollably as Orlando Bloom pushes me up against a wall. “Look at your nice boobs,” he gasps. “Yeah,” I say. “They sprouted when I was 11 and propelled me to instant popularity. If only I could write a letter to my 10-year-old self and let her know that these incredibly symmetrical, bouncing boobs were on the way. Boy, would she be relieved.”
Orlando Bloom looks at me soulfully, and I can tell that he’s about to kiss me the exact way I want to be kissed, which is by darting his tongue in and out of my mouth like a hermit crab. His body throbs because he knows how smart and good at making friendship bracelets I am. We rub our front parts together for a second.
“Wait,” I cry daintily, holding up my right hand. “Before we go any further, I want you to know that I wear a purity ring. I wear this ring because I’m married to God until I marry my earthly husband.”
Orlando Bloom is silent. He sits down and buries his head in his hands.
“I’m so sorry, lover,” I weep. “But I, a 32-year-old woman, am saving myself for marriage. This is a decision I made at an Evangelical sports camp when I was 10, and I have not doubted it once since.”
Orlando Bloom raises his head. His eyes are filled with tears. He stands, strokes my cheek, and smiles.
He holds up his right hand. There, on his ring finger, is a thick silver band that reads LOVE WAITS.
“I have one, too,” he says.
I have an absolutely explosive orgasm.