May 14, 2012

My dearest,

“Stop doing that!”

“But it’s fun. It’s so wobbly!”

“Are you calling my butt wobbly?”

“Uhm, at least it’s not jiggly like jelly any more. It’s a bit firmer now. Like panna cotta.”

You’ve been having panna cotta on your mind since your boss made you some. An Australian of Italian descent, Wayne loves trying his hand at making all sort of Italian dishes from scratch. Fresh, hand-made pasta. Tiramisu. Zabaglione. You name it, he’s tried making it. And when he asked you to suggest a new treat for him to recreate, you suggested panna cotta.

Little did Wayne know you were thinking of my backside.

We’ve just finished our workout at the condo gym. New rule is to skip the elevator and to take the stairs. (After all, the whole idea of taking the lift to avoid the steps only to head straight for the stepper machine at the gym seems really… dumb.)

I made the mistake of walking ahead. Now you’re stabbing at my buttocks with your finger, alternating between each butt cheek (for symmetry, one supposes). It’s annoying. I tell you this.

“But it’s fun! And you’re not Jelly Ass anymore. See? Our gym workouts are working. Now you’re only Panna Cotta Ass.”

You find out exactly how much I’ve improved since starting our workouts at the gym when I give you another one, chasing your ass up the stairs. Idiot. Panna cotta ass, my ass.

Yours, ever and always.