True joy is found in Polar Pops. Imagine yourself, perhaps on a hot summer day, perhaps after a long shift. The hours ground by at an achingly slow rate, the boredom and exhaustion is mind-numbing. Finally your shift ends, you gather your things, clock out, give a half hearted wave to your boss, and walk out the door. The sun is still bright, but the sky is tinged with that faint yellow glow of an August afternoon. You slide into your car, adjust yourself to the driver’s seat, turn the key and drive. Ugh. The traffic is at a standstill, you inch forward, the horns blare, every stoplight gives you a mocking red glare. You scan the radio; it’s nothing but banal pop hits and the latest depressing tragedy out of the 3rd world. 10 minutes go buy. Then 15. Then 20. Finally, it’s been 25 minutes, and you’re out on the highway, making progress. Before long, you’ve taken the exit, your nearer home than ever, but then you see it. From the corner of your eye you see the Low Fuel indicator sneering at you, crushing your frail spirit to dust. “Why live?” you wail in your mind. “Why suffer the pains of this mundane life?” But then you remember. The teary haze clears as soon as it began to build, the burning in your cheeks is soothed. As you make a right, you pull in to the gas station, but this is no ordinary gas station. This is a Circle K. Your car tires crunch to a halt on the scorching concrete lot, just next to pump #5. You open the car door, letting the cool breeze hit your brow, taking in the fresh air with a sharp breath. You make your way to the door and push it open. Quickly now, you stride past the freezer of cartoon ice cream pops, past the wire rack of tabloids. A few more steps and you’re past the Hostess cakes; you give a brief glance to the stale apple fritter in the display case, but its allure grabs you none; you know what you’re here for. Another step and you see it, take it all in, your *raison d’etre*: the Polar Pop® station. You feel yourself grow excited & invigorated just looking at it. You run your hand instinctively along the bottom shelf, grabbing the 48 ounce Styrofoam chalice of your choosing as it loosens itself from the recepticles grip with a low, squeaking groan. Your knees begin to shake with anticipation now, but you soldier forward. Placing the gargantuan vessle beneath the Brisk® dispenser, you press your finger to the button, taking in the scene with just the low mechanical hum to accompany you. Uugh, you can feel it now, your knees quake with excitement, your heart is racing. 48 ounces; by God, how large, how insipid, how vulgar. Shit. You’ve overflowed the cup. No matter; you wipe the excess onto your jeans, and move to the ice dispenser. With a single tap, an avalanche of shitty crushed ice coughs itself up, splashing ever more iced tea onto your hand. No problem. With one hand you fumble for the proper lid and straw, while you slowly suckle the tea from your defiled hand. The dirt, sweat and tea mingle to create a taste at once both exotic and familiar; the excitement is too much. You can feel yourself growing hard as you swish the flavors in your mouth. Trembing with arousal now, you make your way to the counter, slamming the polar Pop down as the portly wench who works the till looks on in fear. Without a word, you pull the exact change from your left pocket: 85¢. Your pocket moans with delight at the savings as you slide your coins along with a fiver to the oaf before you, “five on five” you say, barely holding back a moan. As you exit, you toss the receipt aside, and saunter back to your car. It’s almost about to begin. You open the gas cover, fill up your tank, and hop back into the car; now, now it begins for *real*. Already hard and quaking with horniness, you tap the straw against your dashboard and it releases itself with a subtle tear; you buckle in pleasure as your cock grows harder. You slide the straw in, and the filthy 48oz replies with a wavering plastic moan, but it is not alone; for you, too, are moaning, unable to suppress your ecstacy any longer. Next, you bring your finger to the set of indents at the top of the lid, feeling the give as you push down onto “other”. Waves of pleasure shoot up for finger, down your spine and to your cock as the first flood of precum stains your already tea soaked jeans. Finally, knees quivering, chest and face flush, cock engorged with a flow that would water the Mile Delta, you bring the straw to your lips and suck. When the tea hits your lips, you feel a pleasure so orgasmic, so mighty, so pure, you spasm in joy, scream the scream mankind has not heard since the days of the Great Kahn. Your arms flail, your cock shoots off your body in a jolt of pleasure. Semen, tea, blood, and saliva make a Pollock painting of your car as your orgasm tears you limb from limb. In 15 minutes time, the EMTs arrive, and find nothing but a gory pile floating an oversized styrofoam cup. A suicide bombing gone bad, they figure. But you know the truth.