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Father’s Day the Afternoon

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  Father’s Day the Afternoon 28 June 2026 The restaurant sat tucked between a used bookstore and a vintage clothing shop, its red awning faded to something closer to rust. We'd been coming here since before the girls were born—back when Sunday lunch meant splitting one entrée because that's all we could afford, back when the waitress with the silver-streaked hair still carded us for the beer he never ordered. Now she just waved us toward our usual booth. "Two iced teas," he told her, "and the caprese sandwich." I handed her the menu. "With fruit instead of fries." "And for you, hon?" She turned to me. "The spinach salad. Light dressing." She scribbled and vanished. The restaurant hummed around us—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the distant hiss of something hitting a hot grill. Sunlight slanted through the front windows, catching the dust motes floating lazy in the air. He reached across the table and took my hand. ...
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Father's Day Morning

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  Father's Day Morning 28 June 2026 The following is an account of me performing fellatio on my husband for Father’s  Day. If that offends you then please do not read. Note - We decided to have Father’s Day a week later when the house was not crazy with relatives.  The morning light was still pale and thin when I opened my eyes, the kind of early Sunday glow that made everything look washed in silver. Father's Day. The words floated through my half-awake brain, bringing a small smile to my lips before I'd even fully registered consciousness. He was still asleep beside me. His breathing was deep and even, the slow rhythm of true rest. He'd been working long hours all week, coming home late with tired eyes and shoulders tight with stress, and I'd watched him push through it without complaint. The girls had asked what he wanted for Father's Day, and he'd shrugged and said something about a new grilling spatula, but I knew better. I knew what he needed. I turned...
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Where do you want to eat?

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  Where do you want to eat? I don't care. It happened years ago—before kids, before the house, back when we were still in that cramped apartment with the temperamental dishwasher and the neighbors who fought at 2 AM. We'd been married maybe a year, still figuring out the grooves of each other, the places where our personalities scraped instead of fit. This particular Friday, I'd come home from work exhausted. My brain felt like cotton wool stuffed too tightly into my skull. All I wanted was food I didn't have to cook and a glass of wine I didn't have to pour myself. He was on the couch when I walked in, still in his work clothes, relaxing. He looked up and smiled—that slow, easy smile that usually made my shoulders drop from my ears—and said, "Hey, beautiful. Rough day?" "The roughest." I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the cushion beside him, letting my head fall back against the upholstery. "Feed me. Please. I cannot make decisions ...
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