Monday, July 28, 2008

Just Desserts

Marquette's Mariachi Express

A tease….
By Kirsten Monroe

The bulge in his pants and the way he touched it gave it away, but Marquette played it cool.

Of course she did. The day had started off cool and grey, the June gloom rolling in off the waves, billowing up to Mulholland and evaporating over the Hollywood Hills. She woke up with that carbonated feeling that meant it would be a fine fucking morning.

Marquette saw him finger it, rub the swollen tip of it, but too gently. Guys aren’t gentle with their cocks, not like that. When you see fat, meaty fingers prancing around a cock you know something’s up. And when a thick-necked black man with a Mohawk in mirrored shades orders a short stack of dollar pancakes with strawberry syrup, you’d better be ready with the knife hidden behind the back laces of your pink latex boots.

Mr. T’s friend twitched in the booth, all strung out on something. He didn’t even try to hide his arms, tortured with bruises and track marks. He grabbed the plate of biscuits and gravy from Marquette like it was his first meal in a week – or maybe his last.

Still, she kept her cool. Pulling the ketchup from her uniform pocket, Marquette saw the fingertips twitch over the bulge again as the hand holding the fork lifted the pancakes whole and dripping into his mouth. He put them directly onto his wide, reaching tongue that appeared Kool-Aid red against his dark skin.

Twitchy dipped his finger in the thick cream gravy and sucked on it. “Sweet Jesus, I’m so hungry I could eat my own sweet ass if I had a little salt & pepper.”

“You like kosher salt? It’s great for cooking. That’s what Martha recommends, you know.”

The carbonated feeling was shifting to a funnel cloud sort of feeling. Danger. Danger.
“I’m telling ya man, kosher salt is da shit. I like kosher salt so much, if it was on a cock I’d lick it off.”

“Fuck salt,” Twitchy barked. “I’ll tell you what’s good. What’s good is my favorite dessert.”

Mr. T swallowed another pancake.

“Apple pie?”


“Oreo cookie blast at Sonic?”

“Fuck no.”

Marquette, perched atop pink platform heels and perfectly composed, her Barbie doll blonde hair neat in a French twist, spread her cherry glossed lips into the widest smile a good tipper could buy. “More coffee boys?”

They didn’t answer, fully involved in their conversation, so she leaned over the table, one of her breasts just grazing Mr. T’s massive bicep and filled their cups full of steaming bitterness anyway.

“Flourless chocolate cake with raspberry sauce and ganache rosettes?

“No, dipshit. I’ll tell you what,” Twitchy said, gravy and biscuit crumbs hanging from his lower lip. “Fuck cake and pie and that pussy fucking Martha salt. The best dessert, fuck, he only dessert is Redi Whip on a pair of double-d’s.”

Thank God. Marquette could breathe again. Mr. T. made her nervous as hell, but at least Twitchy talked like a dude.

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