Sunday, June 29, 2008

Harlot sauce will do

It's hotter than fuck today, which makes me think about what to make for dinner, which reminds me of fresh basil leaves and little tins of anchovies, which reminds me of whore food. It's definitely a day for for some hooker noodles and slut salad. Fast and easy -- and beautiful when plated of course -- with a nice glass of pinot gris or maybe if we eat late after it cools off a bit, a big fat Chianti.

Pasta Puttanesca: Tart's Spaghetti with harlot sauce
Insalata Caprese: Slut salad with fresh mozzarella.

Whore food reminds me of a silly story that I started a long time ago that is stuck mid-stroke. Maybe I'll be inspired to finish it...after some sexy bites and a couple of glasses of wine. Or not. I might still be too hot.

Guy’s Night Out
by KM
There’s only one thing I ever ask of a man. It’s not commitment or love. I don’t want money or gifts. All I ever ask of any man is that he give me his dick.

You see, it’s a hobby of mine, collecting penises. My personal collection stands at 52, though it’s become quite a little side business and I figure there must be hundreds of hand-crafted dicks now in the hands of my clients. I catalogue my own private dicks with all the diligence of a coin collector. Each one is tagged, placed in an archival glassine sleeve, and stored carefully in a specially designed acid-free carton before being protected in a fireproof chest. No, not mummified dicks. Replicas. Dicks of the sculpted variety. Cloned willies using body casting alginate.

It’s not penis envy – I’m perfectly happy with my sly, pert pussy. But what can I say? I just love dicks!

I just can’t get enough of the darn things. I like gaze upon their perfect form. I like them hard. I like them soft. I like to watch them rise up, like a cobra in the night. I like to watch them transform from twilight to dawn, watch the balls react and swim beneath them like the undulating sac of an octopus.

I like to pinch the mouth and make them sing. “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.” Oooh, the dick’s little “o” of a mouth. Those teeny tiny little perfect lips. Gives me chills! I like to serenade them with silly comedic songs, use my fingers to puppet them back and forth across the pelvis. My favorite: “slinky, slinky, it’s the magical toy…fun for a girl or a boy!”

I digress. The dick collection started with Oh Henry. Oh Henry was the rather exciting pants whisperer or a rather boring date. I needed to jump-start some pillow talk, so I asked the obvious question. “Well, what’s his name?”

“Huh?” was the reply.

“Does your penis have a name?”

Oh Henry didn’t have a name – that is until I named him. That was the last time I ever dated a nameless man. From that point on, the question came first, even before meeting for coffee or a walk to the park. It’s a sign of weakness, shameful even, for a guy not to honor the life source between his legs with the small, simple gesture of a name!

Incidentally, I have a place name for my soul patch (I’ll tell you later) as it is less a traveler than destination – the cave man’s dwelling. The puss to the octo.

Oh Henry and I became very attached. He had quite an amazing persona and I fell hard. Wakey-wakey Oh Henry! Oh, Henry! Yes! Is Oh Henry hungry? Tell me, Oh Henry. Tell me what you want! And yet, all good things must go. I wasn’t about to commit. It was time to move on. But I couldn’t part with Oh Henry. The rest, as they say, is history.

I never intended to expand beyond my own personal museum. But word of my custom dildo collection somehow got out. My friend Martha asked me to help her cast her boyfriend’s dick before he left for Army duty. Then Rachel wanted a replica of Excalibur as a gift for her husband’s birthday. It simply snowballed from there.

Before I knew it, “Guy’s Night Out” was drawing 20-30 people.

Better than Amway, candle parties, jewelry shows, pampered chef, even poker night -- "Guy’s Night Out” offered something for fucking everyone.

The guys typically hung out around the bar, watching sports, checking out the magazine subscriptions & porn videos & talking trash until it was “their turn” in the back room. The ladies got loaded up with appletinis and wine and all that shit, then milled about checking out the sex toys in the spare bedroom and lingerie in the laundry room.

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom, I worked with my clients to create beautiful works of art.

Obviously, prolonged male excitement is a must for the procedure to work. A couple of drinks, some hot reading material and being fondled by a few naked women usually did the trick, but every once–in-a-while, I ended up with a real tough nut.


Jeremy Edwards said...

"Mortimer Snerd" and I are really enjoying the story, and we hope you'll finish it (if you're not too busy cooking linguini trollopini).

KM said...

Well, it's percolating for sure...knowing that you and Mortimer got a thrill from it may just bring it to a full boil. The trollopini was a hit, but it's hotter than sin again today. I went further south and fired up the cooker for some Mexican barbcue. I call the dish "Pimp my fajita." As soon as I finish my margarita...