There's Nothing Sexier Than A Man Signing A Field Trip Permission Form
Erotica for hetero moms.
Marilyn Nieves | Canva I watch him from the doorway as he rifles through our son’s backpack in search of Things That Must Be Signed. His arms are toned, his chest sculpted from years of baby-wearing. He pauses over a sheet of paper — the weekly note home, I’m guessing from its blinding orange hue — and his eyes scan the page with genuine interest, as he nods intermittently.
I can feel my cheeks start to flush as I drink in the sight of him, standing in the kitchen with his readers halfway down his nose. He sets down the note and retrieves another piece of paper, this one bright green. I surmise it must be the permission form for next week’s field trip to the zoo.
A search for a functional pen ensues, and he knits his brows in frustration. He still doesn’t know I’m watching him from the doorway. He tries three pens and releases a deep sigh. As he proceeds to properly dispose of the defective pens, rather than shove them back in the canister on top of the fridge, I start to swoon just ever so slightly.
He successfully locates a pen that emits ink, and the sight of him hunched over the kitchen counter scrawling his signature across the glowing green paper is almost too much to bear. The flush in my cheeks is traveling down my body, and I clutch the door frame for support.
God, he looks so sexy when he signs those field trip permission forms.
He carefully tucks the form back into our son’s backpack and exits the kitchen through the living room to return the backpack to its hook by the front door.
He’s a man who puts things back where they belong. A man who takes initiative. A man who doesn’t beg for credit or attention. A man who saw a child’s backpack hanging by the front door, likely containing papers that required his attention, swooped in and did what needed to be done.
He returns to the kitchen and pauses, now sensing my presence. He’s gotten me so worked up, that I’m barely able to stand upright. He sees me, all hot and bothered, and a wicked grin spreads across his face. In two long strides, he closes the distance between us, enveloping me in his arms, and begins to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
"I was going to take PTO on Thursday for Zoey’s doctor’s appt. I’ve jotted down a list of questions for the pediatrician, let me know if you have anything to add."
I nod, quivering under his touch, my breathing ragged.
"I think she’s due for a dental checkup, too. I’ll call during my lunch break tomorrow."
A low moan escapes my lips as I nod again. “Keep going,” I murmur.
"Oh, and I put the parent-teacher conferences on our shared calendar."
At the mention of “shared calendar,” I collapse into him completely. “Yes!” I gasp. “Yes, don’t stop!”
"Mason was complaining that all his socks had holes. I ordered more from Target."
“Yes, yes, YES!”
"Some ankle cut, some crew socks."
This man knows how to say all the right things, and how to hit all the right spots. He knows exactly how to bring me to the edge. It feels like a hundred fireworks are bursting successively inside me, each one more intense than the one before it. I see him pause, deliberately, delighting in the sight of me squirming there in his arms.
"Don’t forget, I’m taking the kids to my parents this weekend. They already made packing lists."
He doesn’t say, “packing lists,” he growls it, his breath hot in my ear, knowing full well it will do me in. I can feel a wave of pleasure gathering speed, then nearly bowling me over as my entire body shudders against his.
I melt into his arms, trying to find my breath again, and I wonder if any more field trips are coming up, any more forms that might require his attention. Just thinking about it makes my skin tingle all over again.
It’s as though he can read my thoughts.
"It’s picture day at school next week," he says. "I’m sure they’ll send home an order form if we want to get the prints."
A smile plays at the corner of my lips. I’m smitten. This man who helps carry our mental load is worth a million men who can help open pickle jars. “It’s a date,” I say. “Shall we order the 8x10s?”
Kerala Taylor is an award-winning writer and co-owner of a worker-owned marketing agency. Her weekly stories are dedicated to interrupting notions of what it means to be a mother, woman, worker, and wife. She writes on Medium and has recently launched a Substack publication Mom, Interrupted.