Milk Bar Boy

I flirt with the boy in the milk bar. He's a little, effeminate guy, very girlie. He usually has dyed hair, of assorted colours and a pout. He'd be in his early twenties.

He smiles when he sees me. "How are you today?" he says. It's the way he says it, he manages to make it pregnant with meaning.

"I'm good."

"The usual?" He smiles. "Your usual?"

"Yep, sure."

"You know you should stop?" He turns to get the cigarettes.

"Yeah, sure I do." I gaze at his arse, it's round and firm. He turns quickly and catches me. He smiles.

I pull my wallet out and take out the money.

"Because..." He drops his eyes to the front of my jeans and then looks up again. "They are bad for you."

I hand him the money. "I know. Can't have them... damaging me."

He smiles and turns to the cash register and gets my change. "No... that would be... a tragedy."

"Thanks for the tip."

He slides the notes into my out stretched hand. He pouts quickly and then it is gone. "Tips are good..." He kind of curls his top lip into his bottom lip. "Always... good."



It all started some time back when I went in early one Sunday morning high as a kite after being out all night. I may have made certain lurid suggestions to him. I may have amused myself by getting him all flustered by coming onto him. I may have told him what I'd do to him if he could get off his shift.

Oh, head in hands, now I think about it. I'm incorrigible when I'm high, everything is a game to be won, everything sexual is fun. I should never be allowed to mix in public in that state. Why didn't somebody stop me.

Thankfully, he was the only one on that morning. He looked very disappointed when he told me that.

Consequently, he is always happy to see me, although, not so much lately, now it is beginning to dawn on him that nothing is going to happen.

Oh sorry kid, you are just not my type, and I was never serious, I was just having a laugh, amusing myself at your expense. I know, I am a terrible person.