Giggling Into the Pillow

by Chris Bridges

  I couldn't let this slide past me. When God hands you something like this, you have to grab it and say thank you! But did I really want to get into this kind of kink? I mean, this was one I hadn't heard of, and I used to live near Times Square. Meat? Where would I take her for a romantic evening, the slaughterhouse? Is high cholesterol sexually transmittable? Would I come home one day to catch her masturbating to “Iron Chef” videos? If I bought her a Coney Island dog, would I have to worry about where it would end up? But damn, she was gorgeous. Her nipples were rock hard, plainly visible through her blouse, and there was a maddening meaty scent that wasn't coming from the grill. I snuck a peek under the tablecloth; her toes were curled.

  Suddenly she dropped her fork and looked at me, horrified. “Oh, god, I'm sorry,” she said, hiding her face in her hands. It was only partially successful; the fact that her body was still shuddering with desire kinda blew the effect. I started to reach out and reassure her but she leaped from her chair and ran, awkwardly, for the bathroom.

  On the other side of the grill our co-workers were watching, raptly, with big happy smiles that quickly turned into expressions of concern when they noticed me looking. So much for a gossip-free work environment. I decided that friendship counted more than embarrassment and went to meet her when she emerged, damp but presentable, moments later. She dropped her eyes and tried to push past me.

  “Please, don't say anything, I am so embarrassed…”

  “Why? I like a woman who enjoys a good meal,” I said. She sort of snorted and sobbed at the same time and tried to go around the other side; I moved again and lifted her chin up. “It's okay. Really. C'mon, sit down and talk about it. Or don't. Or I can leave you alone right now, but I'll still say hi in the halls and I'll still send you Xerox copies of my butt on holidays. But no matter what, I won't tell anybody anything you choose to share with me. Deal?”

  She sniffed a few times and then smiled. “Only if you leave me off the butt list.”

  “You're a hard woman.”

  Back at the table she carefully pushed her plate aside and put her clenched hands in front of her. “Look, I'm not going to go into too many details, all right? My parents owned a butcher's shop. I used to hate it, the smells and the carcasses and… I was vegetarian as soon as I was old enough to know what that was. One day dad hired an assistant and we fell in love, and my first time was in the chopping room, because it was the only place we had, and ever since then the smell and taste and feel of any kind of meat takes me right back there.” Her eyes kept darting over to the still-steaming plate. My own was ready and waiting for me back at the counter, but Adam Sandler would win Best Actor before I left this table.

  “So why is this a problem,” I asked. “Find a good-looking butcher and settle down. You're beautiful, you could get anybody you wanted by wiggling a few times. Go cruise Winn Dixie, they're the beef people.”

  She was shaking her head back and forth. “You don't understand, I'm still a vegetarian. Do you know what it's like to get aroused by something that disgusts you?”

  “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend. The question is, can you get aroused without it? Can you have meatless sex?”

  Maggie looked me straight in the eyes and poked around in there for a few minutes before answering. “I don't know. I haven't had… I haven't done anything since George dumped me.” Her blush brought her skin color up to match her lipstick.

  “Anything?”

  “Stop it, this is hard enough. I've never told anybody this, I knew they'd think I was a freak.”

  “You told me.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Yeah, well, you already thought I was a freak. Besides, I smacked you with a quiche, I figured I owed you an explanation.” We laughed together, and I fell in love with her all over again for about the tenth time. I'm sure that there were other people in the restaurant, but all I could see was Maggie; her shining face, her luscious hair, her magnificent hooters. Hey, it's not like I haven't had girlfriends with strange diets before, right? So I took a chance.

  I straightened to my full height and declared, “Maggie, I have the answer for you. Aversion therapy.”

  She jerked away from staring longingly at her plate. “Excuse me?”

  “You've been hiding from meat for years, right? Of course it has a disproportionate effect on you! You need to be exposed to more meat, um, I mean, you need to have more meat hanging around you… damn. You won't get used it if you run away from it. There, that's what I meant. I think.”

  She seemed to be both amused and pissed, which I interpreted favorably since it gave me a 50-50 chance. “And this would happen…?”

  “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 spoo
n. “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.