Hearing Callie, the love of my loins, I turn, bumping into Mrs. Robinson. By the time I maneuver around her plumpy parts, Callie is gone. I sulk—another missed opportunity to coax her into bed. 

A disembodied voice speaks. “If you carve it, she will come.” 

Hope renews, and I scoop up a petite pumpkin.

🎃 

Burning thoughts begin with the first knife’s slice. Precum leaks with the last. The pumpkin smiles.  

At midnight, the doorbell rings. My cock jumps. I open the door and… 

… it’s Mrs. Robinson, wearing nothing but a goatish, gummy grin. 

The disembodied voice giggles.