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Friday, March 23, 2012

Fan Fiction: Competitive Erotic section

From time to time my brain conjures something so far afield that I leave it to fizzle out before it breathes fire unto itself. Sometimes it's so embarrassing I would rather nobody see it, rather not be associated with it. But sometimes it's so embarrassing and gross and weird that I'd rather just admit this is a part of my psyche that should get entertained and let the dogs run themselves out and over the hillside and be free.

Last night I read the following piece, which I wrote (big "Sorry guys" to my boys), in a Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction show in Seattle. I tied for first place.

It is a tale of Jeffrey "Bloeharten" Steingarten, Paula Deen, and Guy Fieri gone wrong. You read the rest.

In the voice of Jeffrey Steingarten.

A good meal can leave one feeling as euphoric as a restful slumber, waking mid-dream only to drift back into sleep, into the dream of laying under a glass coffee table while Rachael Ray squats over you. As a food critic I have eaten in the top restaurants all over the world. I have sipped 800 year-old beers. My olfactory senses have run headlong into the still-beating heart of a Nile-born crocodile. Once, in Massawa on the Red Sea, an elderly Croatian eunuch who had been force-fed only persimmon and organic brown rice for 2 decades, shat into my hands a product that I can only liken to what God must use for toothpaste.

Tonight was different. I was redlining a sensory overload rivaling the time I had to knife-fight a coked-up Anthony Bourdain for calling his taste in cuisine "as influential as the Ramones were to orthodontia." This night, this hazy timewarp had me reeling. There were flavors, not just something my mouth could relay to my brain, but multiple layers of taste and smell. Butters. Creams. Foams. Organ meats. Desserts. Sex. And porkfat. Oh dear... You see, you haven’t had bacon until it’s been run under the sweat-drenched breast of Ms. Paula Deen.

"That's ryt, sugar, you just let mamma do the cookin', and you do all the eatin' you can handle. I loooove it when you get a hand in my mixin' bowl and go to work. Hooo hooo, my Mrs. Butterworth done sprung a leak HAWT GOLLY."

Wading in and out of consciousness every time she pinched my nipples or drizzled hot clarified butter down my stomach, the booze-drenched coffee cake we’d put away was wrapping me in a mahogany haze of rum and insulin. My senses were crackling like funnel cakes in a deep-fryer thanks to the Ecstasy-infused crème fraiche I previously tongued from Paula’s open mouth. Sure, we’d gone full-sprint into Hedonism a few times, but this was something special.

In the past, it wasn't unusual that Guy Fieri would drop in and hang out if he were in the area. Guy liked to do a bump, kill a few White Russians (he once actually choked a half-blind Ukrainian girl to death in Memphis), wait for things to get hot and heavy, then sort of blend into the background – as best a guy dressed like Ed Hardy’s special-needs step-son can - and Guy would tug at his vienna sausage while Paula and I hit the passion buffet. I have never figured out why he wears only one sweatband on his wrist.

Paula brings tons of food and asks only that I bring half a Viagra and the Morning-after Pill. As a food critic it’s a pretty great gig. I eat great food all around the world for free, and when it comes to Paula, it’s really all you can eat, if you know what I mean. Or as she calls it, "Drinkin' from the gravy boat."

My medically-induced soupbone is throbbing to the point of near pain, and she’s rocking back and forth on me like she's churning butter. At one point I'm pretty sure a testicle went in there.

She’s telling me “No don’t you drop the batter on the griddle, hun. It’s not hot enough just yet. Yew hold onta that fer me, sweetloaf. When I need yer frostin', my cake'll be ready. I'm gettin' up on my third orgasm herrrrr, HOLY WAFFLE HOUSE.”

I glance down to watch her stomach hit mine as she leans into me, then rocks back, separating us with a gossamer sheen of butter and Bacardi and a dark… what is that… is that chocolate syrup? I black out again and my mind goes to a previous encounter of ours.

For a while we used butter and olive oil to saute our main course until she got a blue-ribbon yeast infection, which was probably kicked into high-gear by actual yeast and flour from the floor of her kitchen. For a while her crotch smelled like an old pair of Mario Batali's Crocs. Still, that was literally the best loaf of sourdough I’d ever had in my life. Now and again we mix up a batch for the diners at her restaurant “Lady & Sons.”

As I come to, I see a reflection in the mirror. It's the shaved, spray-tanned, Tazmanian Devil-tattooed calf and DC Skate Shoe'ed leg of Guy, off somewhere to my left. I sit, tied to a sticky, fluid-soaked chair with my purple root straining skyward from within a cannoli, my entire carcass glistening like a honey-glazed ham. The air is thick with musk, Malibu rum, peanut oil, an odd metallic scent, and a Glade Plug-in... "Cool Serenity" I think. Paula returns from the bathroom with a stemmed glass, pouring in a Tawny Port to top off our fleshy dessert. I glance over my shoulder and see Guy sitting backwards, but slumped over a chair. His shorts around one ankle, his shoes covered in a glossy red...

I take a sip from the glass pressed to my lips as my lover, Ms. Paula Deen, spits in her hand. She reaches down to twirl her fingers around the head of my GAAAA T THTHTTPTPPTTPHTHHFHFHFHFFF

I spit out the wine. It's gone sour or it's drugged, I can't tell which. It has a heavy smell, like a handful of old pennies... Like an animal. Like blood.

"Okay, sugar," she says, lowering herself to the floor, her sweat-matted head of lavender hair tickling my full stomach. She takes a big sip of the bloody port, spits it onto my love mushroom, and begins crunching through the cannoli.

"The griddle is ssssMOKIN' hot, sugar… Let's have that batter."



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