My Date with a Fire Hydrant

fire hydrant

He tried to put his hand up my skirt once, but I closed my legs and said, “No!”

He followed me for weeks after. On every corner his red face would pop out and ask me,

“Are you thirsty?”

And then I screamed the no. “No! You sick pervert!”

His cocky curled grin made my heart race.

He never budged as I walked away, so confident that we would cross paths again.

Red was a short bastard, but he was rock solid. It was hard work to be on every corner, always looking out for trouble.

He did his job, so he looked like it. Said he worked with firemen, said he liked poles, said he’d like to work me over a pole, but I said, “No! No! No!”

But, a fever set in. The image of Red seized my sight, until the craving burned and scorched away my flesh the way that only flesh can.

I was on fire, my skin barely contained it.

The smoldering look in my eyes was enough to tip off even the dimmest fire hydrant.

I tried to walk past him, honestly I tried.

“Where ya going?”

My breath caught. “Home,” I mumbled.

I could feel his fingers on my shoulder. He was wet. Why the heck was he wet?

“You’re in a fire zone.”

“So?”

“You want me to put your fire out?”

I was hot; the air was heavy, the night, humid. I swooned in his steely arms.  

I said,  “Yes.”

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