If you pop by for a spontaneous hookup, I’m gonna have some hair on my body. Shocker. The thing about being a human is I’m not gonna be slick 24/7! No sir, I just can’t be all fresh and oily every waking minute, no matter how much fun it is to lick my freshly shaven scalp and say, “Yumm, it’s my sexy little ice cream cone”. Sorry, but not really, that I don’t care how fun it is to balance marisiano cherries on my cranium and douse me with chocolate sprinkles. If you want me hot, cold, and covered in chocolate, I am gonna need more notice than a casual late night ‘u up’, followed by ‘the Milkman wants his little spicy icie’.
Look, I get it. Sugary frozen dairy products? Mad sexy. The idea of being a dessert-person hybrid with a human body below the neck and a scoop of ice cream above is truly titillating. I love the little banter, where you say, “This is the best rocky road I ever tasted”, and I respond, “Slip slop, I am a big ice cream with legs and such.” But as much as I love it, I simply cannot be waiting around all slicked up for booty-calls, even from the Milkman.
My body might seem like it’s always naturally ready for ice cream foreplay but in reality, my head DOES naturally grow hair. And I’m sorry, but I can only walk into work with a head covered in whip cream and sprinkles so many times before someone reports me again for being, “up to that fuckin’ ice cream shit again”. The first time it happened, my boss was like, “Okay not sure what’s up in your private life, respect you, don’t come into board meetings with smudged caramel fudge stains on your forehead again”, but by now I am actively emotionally endangering my coworkers. I’m sorry, but the physical and social toll of maintaining this role is just not worth being anyone’s bipedal dairy delight.
It is simply not convenient in my day to day life for me to walk about society freshly sheared on the offhand chance tonight is the night someone’s gonna want to come over for my best imitation of America’s favorite dairy dinner treat. If you give me a schedule, or make your dessert themed affair with me official, then I could prepare myself in the way that we have come to enjoy so much. But Milkman or no Milkman, I’m just not playing this sugary little guessing game anymore.
Because believe it or don’t, but I have a life outside of frozen desert erotica, and sometimes, it WILL take priority.
Illustration from Lucinda Drake