The Nuclear Option

She rubbed him up the right way, made him moo like an oboe, piped him up high like a piccolo. She was finger food for his body. Post the passion dance his heart began to tick like a time-bomb. His blood tangoed in the dark, looped the loop like a bi-plane. Then he went off in the middle of the night, alone. Called her in the morning, hands shaking from after-tremors: Begged her to do that thing that she did to him, that move that made his libido tremolo like a fat lady. Her voice was cool, distant, she complained that her bed had collapsed, that her cat was clinging to the ceiling and would not come down, so he could just keep his 'big bang' to himself. Later he went nuclear.