“At my place. Dinner, tomorrow night.” At
this she lost it, bursting out with a girlish squeal and laughing
again and again. I bore it with calm dignity.
Finally, she got some air back in. “And this
is to help me? You're not just doing this to have sex with
me?”
“No, no, of course not. I'm
doing this to help you
and
have sex with you. Because that's just the kind of
giving guy that I am. Now, do you want a doggie bag, or will you
hump it here?”
The next day I was a busy boy. It took over
$400 of groceries, three borrowed barbecue grills, and catering for
the dishes I didn't have time for before I was satisfied. I may
have gone a bit overboard, something I realized when I was getting
ready and actually found myself wondering whether I should slap on
a little A-1 before she arrived. Look, it's not every day you get a
date coming over that you know, 100% certainty, will have sex with
you. Even when I was engaged once I didn't have that, which could
be why we didn't stay engaged. Maybe it wasn't a sure thing; maybe
I'd only get to watch her go into an uncontrollable masturbatory
frenzy with a pot roast, but I was willing to take that
chance.
The steaks were just ready when the bell
rang. I hurried over to the door and swung it wide to reveal
Maggie, absolutely gorgeous in jeans, high heels and a low-cut
cotton blouse. Daisy Duke in formal attire. She, in turn, seemed
dazzled by my own ensemble: charcoal-gray slacks, silk shirt, tie,
and frilly “Kiss the Cook” apron. She fought valiantly to keep from
bursting out in hysterical laughter and was about to lose when the
scent of the apartment reached her and she was suddenly
transposed.
My apartment had been converted into a
steakhouse kitchen, or an upscale abattoir. The kitchen counters
were stacked with platters of beef, pork and ham, strings of
sausages hung from the shelves, and pans of browning hamburger were
still simmering on the stove. The powerful smell of grilled
chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs blew in from the open balcony,
where my three new grills were chugging away. The oven was stuffed
with meatloaf, beef casserole, veal parmigian, and six Cornish rock
hens, while a massive pot of chili bubbled merrily away on the
burner. The table was set with two plates, wine glasses, and a
breadstick jar with a handful of raw wieners in it. There was a
sidebar nearby with a fondue pot and an assortment of raw meat, and
a big bowl of rock shrimp on ice next to a platter of snow crab
legs and a tureen of butter. My refrigerator bulged with cold cuts
and turkey rolls. My crock-pot runneth over.
Shit! I leaped into the kitchen and killed
the heat under my meatballs, then rushed back out to finish
greeting Maggie. She hadn't moved. Standing stock still, eyes
closed, she was breathing deeply, over and over, letting her entire
body absorb the sensations. Gently I took her arm to guide her over
to the table, and then I adjusted my grip and guided her somewhat
more firmly. It was like herding a frightened gazelle; she was
completely tense, ready to bolt and run at any second. She slid
into her chair and just looked around for a few moments while I
busied myself with drinks.
“I don't believe this,” she said in a deep,
husky voice, but I wasn't sure she was talking to me so I let it
go, setting a glass of wine in front of her. Her hands were
clenching, over and over, so I left her there to come to some sort
of sexual equilibrium while I basted the turkey. When I came back
she was sitting perfectly still, with a small smile on her face,
and reaching tentatively for a wiener.
I smacked her hand with a spoon. “Ah, ah!
All in good time. First things first, we cannot rush such a fine
meal.” I bowed to her, and then turned to the counter behind me and
produced, with a grand flourish: salad bowls, one for each of us.
She looked down at the only green thing in the entire room and
raised her eyebrows in a sardonic question. “Please, please,” I
urged. “You'll insult the cook and he won't let you fuck
dinner.”
Maggie muttered obscenities at me but
started eating her salad. I could see her nostrils flaring with
every bite. It had to be torture, being surrounded by the object of
your desire but being unable to touch it, but I wanted to make sure
she really wanted to do this and this gave her some breathing room
to make up her mind. Or else I just loved the idea of making her
wait for it; I'm not that sensitive a guy, really.
We chatted a bit while we ate, but her mind
wasn't really in it. She nodded and smiled and agreed with me as I
told her about my achievements in thoracic medicine, astrophysics,
the Winston Cup circuit, the time I saved the lives of everyone in
Congress after they all got stuck in a tree one day and how my
penis was the original model for all the vibrators in the world
because of my natural horizontal vein placement. She accepted it
all with a faint smile and wide, dreamy eyes, nodding occasionally
and wordlessly stuffing lettuce in her mouth. I finally took pity
on her, and my own crowbar dick, and got up to get the first
course. She stood up as I passed and took my arm, saying, “Robbie?
I want you to know that whatever happens, I came here to see you,
okay? Not all this. It's…” She took another deep breath, pressing
her firm breasts against me. “It's amazing, and I can't believe you
did it, but I would have come anyway.”
Saying “I kissed her”
wouldn't begin to describe it. I
took
her mouth, hard and deep, because
she was looking up at me and the pounding of my blood would allow
nothing gentler. Her arms wrapped tight around my neck while I
relentlessly chased her tongue with my own. She pressed herself
tight against me and I jerked once, uncontrollably, when my cock
pushed up against the softness of her belly felt the heat pulsing
just below. It went on for years, and when I finally pulled away it
was to see Maggie, eyes wild and feral, pushing up against me and
growling deep in her throat. I nuzzled her neck and whispered into
her ear, “You know, just once I wish you'd treat me like a piece of
meat.”
She snorted and started to smack me but I
produced a strip of teriyaki steak from the counter behind her and
carefully let it trail along her neck and collarbone. She breathed
in sharply and we both watched as it meandered its way across her
chest and dipped briefly into her cleavage. Her nipples grew strong
and tall, and I let the steak march over them in its travels.
Maggie gasped at each contact, and arched her neck as my little
steak train chugged its way up her throat and over her chin. I
lifted it slightly so that the end of it dangled just over her
face, brushing her lips, and just as she lunged upward to take
fully half of it in her mouth I thrust my other hand between her
legs.
She cried out and tried to push down on my
hand even as she tried to reach up for more steak. I took pity on
her and let it drop into her gobbling jaws. Besides, I needed both
hands free to get her jeans off. Clothes flew across the room as we
both fought to get naked as if our clothes were on fire.
Her first orgasm came from me rubbing a
t-bone steak between her legs, over and over, within 30 seconds of
her panties hitting the floor. The hot flesh of the steak rubbed
hard against the hot flesh of her pussy lips, and she bore down to
catch the nubbly edge of fat on her own nub. I helped matters along
by pouring mushroom gravy directly on the flesh most in need of
moisture, and it sent her over the edge into spasming delight. She
got me back with a double handful of liver wrapped around my cock,
and I cannot begin to describe the feeling when she used both hands
to quickly stroke me into oblivion. She had two more carnivorous
orgasms (one with a playful pork chop, one with streams of my
grandmother's homemade spaghetti sauce running over her breasts,
spreading across her belly and pooling into her sweet puss where
her fingers flew and spattered sauce everywhere) before we finally
made love. I had been reaching past her shoulder for some ketchup
when she grabbed my hips and guided me home.
This is the part where I describe the
pulsing, the throbbing, the indescribably electric feelings of lust
and power that swept through me like hurricane tides, and they were
certainly there. But what I remember most, even more than her pussy
clutching at me, even more than her fingernails raking designs in
the grease on my chest, was the sight and the smell of her twisting
under (and over) me. Her entire body was swirled in gravy and
sauces. Her eyes were primal and dark, a predator's eyes. Her hair
was everywhere, streaked with tomato sauce and bits of hamburger,
and it hung in beautiful oily loops over her shoulders. With every
thrust her belly tensed, causing psychedelic designs of liquid to
shimmer and splash across her body, and her breasts were messy
handfuls of marinated meat, sweet and tangy and bouncing and
delicious.
And the smell, the maddening, savory,
intoxicating smell. If you've ever made love to a woman in a
roomful of meat dishes after spreading half of them on top of her,
you know exactly what I mean. Otherwise, imagine fucking a
barbecue. I pulled out to quickly drop and taste her, because the
smell of her own juices mixed with the collected juices of her lean
and tender play toys was driving me mad. She was filet mignon,
impossibly rare and sweet, and I poured wine over her lips to
accompany my meal. Finally I drove back into her even as she
corkscrewed herself back onto me and we exploded in a wild spasm of
culinary delight.
We used every scrap in the room, every
morsel. I tired out long before she did, but I remember waking up
once when she was sucking on me and humming the Oscar Mayer song,
and I vaguely remember seeing her masturbating with an Italian
sausage while basting herself over and over. By the next morning my
carpets were ruined, my apartment smelled like a three-day luau,
and we were madly in love.
We're still together, although things have
changed somewhat. I now have a slight attraction to cooking smells
(meaning I get hard as a rock if I smell meat cooking or even hear
it sizzling, causing me no end of problems when I go to Outback),
and she's calmed down considerably. Apparently one wild night of
overindulgence helped after all, and while she appreciates what we
did, she has returned to her vegetarian ways.
She's not a strict vegan, mind you. She'll
still masturbate with fish or dairy products.
-------------------------
How to Bag a
Supermodel
I know what you want. You want to date a
classy lady, someone with manners and couth, a woman who gets out
of the shower to pee. You want someone to be seen with that'll make
the other guys want to lick your arm. You want to date a
supermodel.
I can help you. Just follow these simple
tips and you'll have them falling over you, and not just from
anorexia.
Don't tell her she's
pretty.
She knows that, idjit. She gets
paid for her appearance, and hundreds of people tell her every day
how perfect she is. Not only is it unoriginal, it's also the only
thing about herself over which she has no real control -
supermodels are very aware that they make a living from being
genetic flukes. Compliment her on her attire, her bearing, her
jokes, her witty conversation, her amazing capacity for stimulants.
Even better, point out her imperfections. She'll eat it up, and
she'll know you can see beyond the beauty to the real her. Make
sure you mention every enlarged pore, every pimple, each
inappropriate hair, any dangling nasal mucous, the growing bags
under her eyes.
“Hey gorgeous, getting a little spread back
there?” She'll swoon.
Be ugly and
talented.
Seriously. Look at the history:
Paulina Porizkova and Ric Ocasek, Christie Brinkley and Billy Joel,
Heather Thomas and Tommy Lee, Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, Pamela
Anderson and Bret Michaels, Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock, Angelina
Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton, Kate Hudson and the straggly guy from
The Black Crowes… Hot chicks dig ugly, talented guys, so get
cracking and start playing. You might not even have to be really
good, I dunno. Has Bret Michaels done anything? I don't really keep
up with these kids. Just tell 'em you play rhythm guitar, then all
you have to be able to do is play a couple chords and consume a
city bus full of liquor in a single sitting.
Be rich and ugly.
A slight clarification: be rich and sick and ugly.
I don't think I need to go into this one, if you can't figure it
out on your own then you might as well not bother. If you have
acres of loose wealth, go hang around Anna Nicole Smith and cough a
lot.
Be hung like a bull
moose.
There's no other excuse for Tommy
Lee.
Be political.
Another way in which former president Bill Clinton
has led the way for all of us. He's been linked to former Miss
America Elizabeth Ward Gracen, former Miss Arkansas Sally Perdue,
former bad singer Gennifer Flowers, and there's rumors he's even
been intimate with New York Senator Hillary Rodham (unsubstantiated
at the time of this article). At least democratic presidents
remember
how
to
have sex! Lots of senators, congressmen, consultants, diplomats and
appointees have been seen with the glamour world's best and bright…
um, best. Keep in mind that at the grassroots level you'll have to
settle for housewives and the occasional starry-eyed teenage
campaign volunteer, but if politics teaches you nothing else it
will teach you how to compromise.