Icedream

Neapolitan is the first word that comes to mind. The chocolate of my skin, the shocking pink of my tongue, and the suggestively creamy white of the vanilla ice cream. No more than two seconds, really – but it's already got you hard, thinking of what else is pink and brown and likely to be spread with cream.

My sundress is unremarkable – you've seen a hundred like it this summer, especially this summer, with it being so hot and humid. You enjoy it, in fact: summertime in the south, with all the girls sweet as different flavors of candy with their shorts and little tops and sundresses that even the wind wants to get under for a few warm seconds. Knees exposed, thighs, sleek calves…you're a breast man, but damn if summertime isn't your favorite time of year, with all the bare flesh around, just ripe for the looking.

It's just a plain cotton flowered sundress, one of the straps isn't straight, as if I pulled it hastily back onto my shoulder after it slipped off – or after someone else slipped it off. But the breezy cotton isn't enough , apparently – because I'm sitting in one of the last patches of shade in the park, one brown leg folded underneath me, eyes closed, leaning back, slowly licking the ice cream. As if the slower I licked it, the cooler I'd be.

Not that it's making you cooler…The pink tongue darts out again, catching the still-swirled side of the ice cream, smoothing it. You see the ivory sweetness disappear between my lips – darker pink than my tongue, more brown, really. But you know if you kissed me, they'd taste like vanilla. A beat, then the working of my throat as I savor it, swallow it, let the coolness slide down my throat.

Another lick. Another. Again. You start to notice the difference between the ones that move upward, making a little crest – and the ones that smooth the ice cream, easing the coolness into a manageable curve. You think I might be enjoying the feel of the different textures: smooth, softly spiked. You'd be right. More licks. You know I'd take my time with your fingers, were they in my mouth. You can tell I'd be a deft kisser – licking your bottom lip before opening my mouth to yours. The thought comes of what I could do with your dick – or your balls. Or – and you shiver despite the heat – the rim of your asshole. You shake away the thought, and look towards the gate to the park, as if someone could catch you watching, know what you're thinking.

And then, the now- blunt tip of the ice cream disappears between my lips. You bite back a groan. When it reappears, it's smaller, but you can see the glistening of the heat-melted cream from where you are. You can see the sheen of cool wet on my mouth. A daub of cream on the corner of my lip, and the quick dart of my tongue when it comes to retrieve it.

Can I feel you watching, you wonder. Do I somehow sense you? My eyes open briefly, but the park is big, and lots of open space, couples, a few dogs and their owners running in the afternoon sun, separate us. You were supposed to meet your boys for a game, but they're late. The ball lies forgotten, in the bag, along with your other stuff. You should go over and say hello, you think. Introduce yourself. Try a line. But then I take the smaller, domed head of what's left of the ice cream into my mouth and you forget what line you were going to use, anyway. I suck it a little longer this time, not as leisurely. The sun isn't cooperating and the ice cream is melting. I'm pushing what's left of the dome into the cone now, lapping at the sides of the wheat-brown cone trying to keep it from dripping onto my hand. It's not working well—I have to stop and touch my tongue to the ring of my fingers before beginning again.

That done, the nibbling begins: white teeth nipping at the sides of the cone. Neat, precise little grabs of the wafer, the quick tongue licking the exposed cream. I'm working more quickly now; the cream is fast turning to sweet, sticky milk. And before you know it, there's only the mere triangle of wafer between my fingertips.

And your startled gasp when I smile, let my eyes focus on yours, and pop the last bit of the icedream cone between my lips.