“That was exceedingly pleasant.”
“Thank you, thank you, all part of the
service.”
“Really? Is there a tip jar?”
“No, your gratuity was included in your
bill. Skooch over, you're hogging the blankie.”
“I thought that was only when the party was
over 7 people?”
“It's a complimentary service I provide for
my best customers. Gimme.”
“Then I should fill out the comment card.
Here, you can't get more blankie because you're lying on it. Now,
comments… I never have a pen when I need one…”
“What does the card say?”
“Hey, don't snoop while I'm writing. Hmmm.
'Quality of Service? ' Excellent.”
“Thank you.”
“'Promptness? ' Well, you were a little slow
getting started…”
“That's because you kept dropping those real
subtle hints about me needing more protein in my diet, and how you
just happened to know where I could get some freshly squeezed, so I
pretended to be asleep 'til you got serious.”
“I was very serious, and that'll lose you
points. ‘Failure to take the customer's desires under account’.
I'll just note that under 'How May We Improve? '“
“Hey, I didn't laugh at your orgasm face,
that ought to qualify me for Employee of the Month.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, I was laughing at the noises you were
making, chipmunk boy.”
“Wow, you get surly when you're off duty,
don't you?”
“You started it. And don't call me
surly.”
“Let's see… 'Quality of food'. Exquisite. I
should thank the chef.”
“I don't think my parents are near a phone.
You could thank God, I suppose. But call it something else, if I
hear you thanking God for my pussy I'll just get embarrassed.”
“I'll put it in French,
that's what the best restaurants do anyway. Uh,
“
chaud humide chat
”
or something. Nah, if I was going to do that I woulda said grace
beforehand. Besides, then I'd feel obligated to do the same
whenever I was dissatisfied with the service.”
“Hey! When have you ever been dissatisfied
with the service?”
“Just planning for the future, m'luv.”
“More comments like that and there won't be
one, you'll be on a diet. Dunno why I bother getting fancy anyway,
no matter what I do to prepare you fall on me like a burger and
fries anyway.”
“Not always, just when it's been
awhile.”
“You mean like more than a day or so.”
“Pretty much, yes. But I don't treat you
like fast food.”
“Sure you do. You step up, glance at the
menu with your mouth open while I wait for you to decide, then you
get the same thing you always do, tear through it like a
linebacker, then dump your tray and leave. As it were.”
“But at least I finish eating before I play
on the playground.”
“I think our metaphors are getting a bit
confused.”
“I certainly am. But hey, if we went the
fast-food route we could mount one of those big bells like Long
John Silver’s has and I could just ring that whenever it was really
good.”
“Oh, God. There's something to look forward
to.”
“The happiest of Happy Meals, and that way
the neighbors could keep track of your service record. Back to the
card.”
“Shouldn't we be getting up or going to
sleep or something?”
“Quiet, this is just good manners. How will
service ever improve if we don't take the time to comment?”
“You could stop yelling 'wahoo, ride 'em
cowboy' during intimate moments, for one thing.”
“Romance is dead. Perhaps you could offer
after-sex mints or something.”
“You hate mints.”
“But it would give me something to whip at
the light switch. I hate getting up right afterwards.”
“That would explain why you favor t-shirts
for cleanup.”
“That's another thing, you should provide
linens. Maybe a handiwipe like the barbecue places have.”
“One more word and you'll be stuck with
self-serve, you know that, don't you?”
“You're still my favorite night spot, you
know.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Hey?”
“Mmmmphh?”
“Would madam be interested in a midnight
snack? Plenty of protein…”
-------------------------
An Unsigned
Love Letter Stuffed in a Locker
I find you in an intimate apparel boutique,
like Victoria's Secret, or Wal-Mart. You're at the register.
There's a long line of customers in front of you, you're hurried
and frantic and so you don't see me coming up from behind. I sneak
up, quiet as the jungle cat I resemble and smell like, to stand
directly behind you, close enough to breathe in the intoxicating
combination of silky soft hair and Cheetos.
I nod, smiling, to the customer behind you,
inviting him to share in the momentary deception and enjoy your
imminent surprise, even to go first if he wants to. He nods back,
sending me silent messages in the age-old gentleman's code, for me
to take first crack. He follows it up by waving his erect penis at
the both of us, signifying his approval of what is surely to come,
much like the howler monkey (and his enemy, the hideous
shark).
I take advantage of your sudden confusion to
gently reach around and stroke your neck, lightly and lovingly,
with a #3 Phillips head screwdriver. You jump, startled, before
relaxing to my sure and confident hands. My hands rest lightly on
your shoulders as I snuggle and lick your neck from behind and the
customers begin muttering, moving around us and taking side-bets.
You have just enough time to lay $100 to place before surrendering
to my embrace.
I featherflick my tongue up your carotid
artery to your chin, nibbling my way around and enjoying your
delighted murmurs. I reach your ear and carefully nip your earlobe,
then abruptly seize it between my teeth and bite through (much like
my enemy, the hideous shark). Rich red blood spurts out to run in
crimson rivulets down your throat, between your breasts and into
your beeper, shorting it instantly in a death dance of sparks and
flame.
I leap upon the register, beating my chest
and bellowing my challenge to all other bull cashiers for your
favor. Mr. Wortley, the floor manager, accepts, romping up and down
the main aisle on all fours, beating his own chest and missing
occasionally. I charge him, easily batting him aside with my
powerful forearm and kneeling on his forehead. He rallies and
manages to bite through my calf before I capture him in a full
nelson and snap his spine with a clear “crack”. I drop him and wait
for the decision. The other cashiers fearfully gather their young
and retreat to the safety of the high shelves as the referee enters
the ring and holds my arm up high. The crowd goes wild, I've made a
dangerous enemy in Vinnie “Donuts” Ballituchi for not taking a
fall, and I'm ready for love.
During my ordeal you've taken the time to
make yourself more comfortable, changing into a maddeningly
provocative black lace teddy, spreading credit card charge slips to
soften the countertop, turning the register light down low. I
stride towards you and sweep you up in my arms to kiss you softly
on the lips before screaming like a cheerleader and collapsing into
a heap (forgot about my calf wound). I run my fingers through your
hair until they're clean and then I caress your face, kiss you
softly, run my tongue lightly between your lips and teeth, casually
grab a handful of hooter, and whisper sweet sentiments in your
mouth.
You're breathing heavily now and you run
your hands freely over my back, face, ass, and, accidentally,
Hector the bagboy. You expertly dress my wounds and begin running
your tongue over me, licking in varying rhythms across my face and
ankles. Blood from your mutilated ear drips on my neck and I enjoy
the sensuous feel of the hot liquid rolling down my body. We are
becoming as one, at least when seen from the back.
The excitement builds as we tear each
other’s clothes off, fondling, kissing and knuckle-cracking as we
go, to land in a tangled naked clump behind the registers. I unhook
your bra joyously, delighting in the feel of your incredible
breasts as they come tumbling out into my hands, shooting out past
my head and into the aisle. You rip my pants off bodily. I
passionately align your driveshaft-to-differential flange
matchmarks, install bolts, washers and nuts, and torque to 31
foot-pounds. Excited beyond belief by our need and dizzy from blood
loss, you sweep your mouth down my body and head straight for my
proud John Thomas, missing by inches and going three miles out of
your way until the next exit. You double back, and stopping to spit
the gravel out, you wrap your fingers around my heat-seeking
moisture missile and begin.
Oh, you’re a marvel, and everything I ever
fantasized about; except you have all of your own teeth. You lick
softly and dartingly, smiling at me. You kiss the length of it
until I begin moaning, and then tease me by pulling away and
leaving for coffee and a quick haircut. Finally, long after I can't
stand any more and begin trying to find someone else, you grasp my
willie firmly and engulf me to the hilt (much like my enemy, the
hideous shark). Oh god, the feel of it! Your hot, wet, willing
mouth, your talented tongue, the indescribable feel of your velvety
soft uvula bouncing off the head of my manmeat.
Okay, now that I think about it, when I
fantasized about you, you were usually tied to a Burger King deep
fryer and I was dripping onion ring batter all over your insteps as
you sang the Meow Mix song over and over in a sultry voice. But
this is pretty good too.
Anyway, there you are huffing my choad,
licking quickly around the sensitive underside to rise up and
forcefully take thirteen inches all the way down your throat, which
causes me to cry out since I only have five. I can feel the need
surging within me as my boiling juices race from my balls and surge
(did I use surge already? Okay, okay, fire? Spurt? Ooze? Rush?
Rush. ) rush up my enraged whanger, only to stop before I lose
control completely due to your expert timing and your thoughtful
placement of a hose clamp. Your raise your head up, smiling
innocently and turning your head slightly to hock out an errant
hair and reposition your gum.
I push you down, impatient and aware of the
audience reaction, to gently slide my hands between your legs and
touch your flower. It’s a beautiful creature, shy and
factory-fresh. I caress your womanhood gently, first with just the
one fist to give you time to become accustomed to the new
sensations, then with my more imaginative strokes. With the fingers
of one hand I carefully circle your clitoris without touching it. I
keep my other hand firmly on your hip to keep you motionless and
because I really like hips. I lightly touch your clit with just the
tip of my tongue as I gently, gently insert my left great toe into
your secret garden. I move my foot in small circles, paying special
attention to familiar sensitive areas, watching my footing, and
ignoring the shooting pains from my calf. Your moans are more
insistent now as you fight my hold and attempt to roll your hips to
bring your clit under my tongue. I playfully refuse to allow you
this release so soon, even to the point of removing my tongue
entirely and laying it on the countertop.
After hours of loving torture and a break
for lunch I throw your legs apart, breaking one in my haste, and
sink my throbbing, steel-hard pee-pee deep within your bikini zone.
We scream together, me in ecstasy, you in pain from your leg, as I
thrust harder and harder to get as far up your love canal as
possible and, incidentally, as far away from Hector as I can. I
stop abruptly, teasing you, and then ram my friendly weapon into
your yielding softness with such speed, vigor and manly power that
you nearly wake up. I retain full control of my silk salami, easily
changing speeds and motions for almost thirty seconds before
spurting helplessly around the room and collapsing in a snoring
heap (much like my enemy, the hideous shark).
The next morning, when you awaken to the
approaching sirens and realize my spunk has glued us (and Hector)
irrevocably to the floor mat, you squeeze your thighs lovingly
around me (eliciting small whimpers of despair from my sleeping,
drooling form) and think back over our wild night of passion. Then
you get me a beer.
And maybe, after bail is posted and we get
to know each other, we could, you know, maybe go out or something.
Write me.
-------------------------
Make Mine
Vanilla
The following is an excerpt from
the nearly-exciting new book, “Make Mine Vanilla,” by Kurt
Hanrehan, coming out this fall from Missionary Press.
Has sex gotten boring for you? Does
it seem like it's hardly worth it to test the eyehooks in the
ceiling anymore, or oil the harnesses, or schedule everyone for the
weekend orgy? Have you ever been licking your master's tire treads
clean and suddenly realized you'd rather watch TV? Does the thought
of your lover pissing on you from atop of the china cabinet just
not hold the thrill it used to? Do you ever find yourself staring
at your pierced labia and just wondering “why?”
Don't fret, little fuckaroo. You just need to limit
your sex life.
It's a common complaint these days. After years of
civil rights movements, increased sexual awareness, lessened social
stigmas, and an unavoidable all-absorbing flood of
ever-more-explicit sex in all forms of media, people were
encouraged to open up their drab sexual lives and embrace the
weird. Ropes, chains, diapers, groups of thirty at a time,
inserting chunks of lead through various organs, controlled
asphyxiation, phone sex, cybersex, tantric sex, furry sex, hot wax,
fetishes of all sorts, humiliation, four hour orgasms, and even
aggravated celibacy have all broken the taboo barrier and are all
now commonplace. And that's the problem. You're jaded. You have no
new sticky vistas, no shining sexual edge to seek. You pushed the
envelope and now it's gone. So what now? Take up gardening? Spend
time with the needy? Pay more attention to your family?