I remember the night
we rushed to the store
faster than a chocoholic whore
to find the perfect accoutrements
for my tutelage in culinary sex.
Shoppers still talk about
that night as they speak of
triple coupons…with awe
and disgust and envy, all
at once, WASPs stinging.
Nothing was off limits in
the vegetables. Carrots pointed,
zucchini sat, useless as
limp dicks in need of fluffers,
but the cukes! How they winked
and flirted better than any prom date,
and more certain to put out.
No spurned advances as we
tickled and cajoled the produce,
stopping to slap the melons
with faint sighs of spanked lovers.
Remember PTA mom in her
late night, curled right, uptight
rollers pulling her eyes into
slits smaller than a cat's?
We thought she'd die when we
dry humped her watermelon
to a pink orgasm, spilling its
seeds at her Cinderella feet.
Dairy was next, cows beware!
Milk was the root of all evil at
this smorgasbord of sex and sin.
Jugs became tits when held in
jest. Giggling and grabbing Gouda,
you pulled my jeans and tossed it
in! Oh how those late night grocery
geishas stared at my cheesy smile
as eyes fell like overripe Brie to
my gargantuan groin engorged
by Gorgonzola. "Grab it!" I dared.
You dared, too. What was firm
now glistened with creamery goo.
Begging to leave and more red
than a maraschino cherry, you
drug me doggy style to the ice
cream freezer. How I wanted to
get out of my crusting jeans and
get into you. "Wait!" you bark.
"We need just the right topping
if you're topping me!" In a flurry
of arms you dabbled and squirted
and painted me. Burnt Butterscotch.
Cherries Jubilee. Chocolate Insanity.
Karmel Kravings. I became a living
spin art exhibitionist with the most
delicious carnal cravings.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones