I’ll admit that the idea of having milk delivered to our home was a bit of a joke at first and what came later was not at all planned at the beginning. I mentioned it to my husband while he was eating his breakfast and he said, “Am I not paying enough attention to you dear?”

I took a sip of milk so that it left a milk mustache, then smiled at him. He almost snorted his coffee.

But I wasn’t laughing the first time I saw the milkman step down from his immaculately hand rubbed 1955 Divco truck. His shirt and slacks and hat matched its powder blue paint job and his beard and the tattoos on his hard forearms matched its dark red pinstriping. I would have greeted him at the door that first day but I wasn’t prepared. I just peered through the curtain. He bent and put two glass bottles and a paper bag in the aluminum box, walked back to his truck, and drove off.

“Aren’t you looking darling today,” said my husband that Friday as he ate his breakfast.

I was wearing a yellow strapless day dress with white polka dots, white stockings, saddle shoes.

“Thank you, dear,” I said. “It’s Ma Jong day with the ladies.”

Once my husband had left for work I touched up my makeup and put the butter back in the refrigerator.

When the milkman opened the milk box, I opened the front door. He looked up at me in surprise, then smiled slightly and stood. He had a glass bottle in each hand, one milk and one cream, and a little paper bag pinched against the milk bottle with one finger. He had brass and silver rings on his fingers.

“Would you mind coming in for a minute?” I asked. “I have a question for you about my order.”

“Of course you do.” He smiled and I closed the door behind him.

He put the bottles and paper bag on the kitchen table. I put the bottles in the refrigerator and kept my back to him long enough for him to appreciate the view. My hair was tied in a ponytail. I have nice shoulders and my low dress back showed just the top of the tattoo I have there. The backs of my stockings had little poodles on them at the top of the calf. My husband had bought them for me. I wondered if the sight of me pleased the milk man. I wondered if he’d noticed that I’d taken care to match the style and era of his truck and his outfit.

I closed the refrigerator and turned back to him.

“So what can I help you with, miss?”

I looked him over. I looked him over again. I thought about the cream and butter he’d brought me and I got that feeling I get.

“I have to say, I’m really happy with your quality.”

Did he know I wasn’t talking about the dairy? That little smirk remained on his wide lips. He had a wolfish look about him. He had freckles. His blue eyes matched his milk man uniform.

I opened the paper bag, slipped out the block of butter wrapped in waxed paper, leaned forward, and put my elbows on the tabletop. My breasts hung against my dress. They’re not small breasts. They make an impression. I unwrapped the butter from its waxed paper. I took my time about it and let him have a good long look. I had arranged myself in the mirror earlier and now I calculated that at this angle he could probably see halfway to my navel.

“This butter is excellent,” I said. I scooped a bit with two fingers and rubbed it with my thumb. I smiled. “Do you guys churn it by hand?”

“Of course not,” he said. That smirk was still there in his red beard. “We have ladies who do that.”

“Of course you do,” I said.

We regarded each other.

“So there’s something else I was wondering if I could get from you,” I said. “It’s a type of cream. The problem is I’m not sure what it’s called.” I touched a buttery fingertip to my throat and looked away a moment, thinking. I glanced back at him. I thought I saw his eyes quickly returning from another visit to my cleavage.

“Is it a sour type of cream?” he asked. “Like quark? We do have quark now.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a kind of a very mild sour cream.”

“Oh no no, the cream I’m thinking of isn’t sour. It’s a little sweet. And it’s always served warm.”

“Warm?”

“Yes. Maybe poured over some sticky buns or hotcakes? I just can’t get enough of the stuff.”

“Where have you had it?”

“Oh, I’ve had it all over. Especially when I go down south. That’s where I usually get it. But I would love it if I could get it up here.”

He regarded me for a moment. The smirk was gone and his eyes had narrowed in a way that made my stomach flutter.

“Miss, as it turns out I do think I know what you’re looking for. And I do happen to have some I can give you.”

It was my turn to glance down. I let him see me do it. I took my time about it. The front of his milkman trousers had a bulge lying leftward down his leg.

“I’m so happy to hear that,” I said. “It’s been too long since I’ve had it. And I do enjoy it so much.”

He took a step toward me. “Well a pretty lady like you deserves to enjoy herself.”

I smiled at him. “Are you just buttering me up?”

He shook his head. “No, but I will.”

It was all the prompting I needed. I squatted in front of him and put my hands on his hips, which tilted toward me in response. I lightly stroked the bulge down his left leg, feeling out its dimensions. I looked up at him and batted my eyelashes and pursed my lips for him like a pinup girl, and I felt his cock give a twitch of acknowledgement under the fabric of his trousers. Then I pinched his zipper and pulled it down and reached in and drew him out.