Giggling Into the Pillow Read online

  “That's because you kept dropping those real subtle hints about me needing more protein in my diet, and how you just happened to know where I could get some freshly squeezed, so I pretended to be asleep 'til you got serious.”

  “I was very serious, and that'll lose you points. ‘Failure to take the customer's desires under account’. I'll just note that under 'How May We Improve? '“

  “Hey, I didn't laugh at your orgasm face, that ought to qualify me for Employee of the Month.”

  “Yes, you did!”

  “No, I was laughing at the noises you were making, chipmunk boy.”

  “Wow, you get surly when you're off duty, don't you?”

  “You started it. And don't call me surly.”

  “Let's see… 'Quality of food'. Exquisite. I should thank the chef.”

  “I don't think my parents are near a phone. You could thank God, I suppose. But call it something else, if I hear you thanking God for my pussy I'll just get embarrassed.”

  “I'll put it in French, that's what the best restaurants do anyway. Uh, “chaud humide chat” or something. Nah, if I was going to do that I woulda said grace beforehand. Besides, then I'd feel obligated to do the same whenever I was dissatisfied with the service.”

  “Hey! When have you ever been dissatisfied with the service?”

  “Just planning for the future, m'luv.”

  “More comments like that and there won't be one, you'll be on a diet. Dunno why I bother getting fancy anyway, no matter what I do to prepare you fall on me like a burger and fries anyway.”

  “Not always, just when it's been awhile.”

  “You mean like more than a day or so.”

  “Pretty much, yes. But I don't treat you like fast food.”

  “Sure you do. You step up, glance at the menu with your mouth open while I wait for you to decide, then you get the same thing you always do, tear through it like a linebacker, then dump your tray and leave. As it were.”

  “But at least I finish eating before I play on the playground.”

  “I think our metaphors are getting a bit confused.”

  “I certainly am. But hey, if we went the fast-food route we could mount one of those big bells like Long John Silver’s has and I could just ring that whenever it was really good.”

  “Oh, God. There's something to look forward to.”

  “The happiest of Happy Meals, and that way the neighbors could keep track of your service record. Back to the card.”

  “Shouldn't we be getting up or going to sleep or something?”

  “Quiet, this is just good manners. How will service ever improve if we don't take the time to comment?”

  “You could stop yelling 'wahoo, ride 'em cowboy' during intimate moments, for one thing.”

  “Romance is dead. Perhaps you could offer after-sex mints or something.”

  “You hate mints.”

  “But it would give me something to whip at the light switch. I hate getting up right afterwards.”

  “That would explain why you favor t-shirts for cleanup.”

  “That's another thing, you should provide linens. Maybe a handiwipe like the barbecue places have.”

  “One more word and you'll be stuck with self-serve, you know that, don't you?”

  “You're still my favorite night spot, you know.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “Hey?”

  “Mmmmphh?”

  “Would madam be interested in a midnight snack? Plenty of protein…”

  -------------------------

  An Unsigned Love Letter Stuffed in a Locker

  I find you in an intimate apparel boutique, like Victoria's Secret, or Wal-Mart. You're at the register. There's a long line of customers in front of you, you're hurried and frantic and so you don't see me coming up from behind. I sneak up, quiet as the jungle cat I resemble and smell like, to stand directly behind you, close enough to breathe in the intoxicating combination of silky soft hair and Cheetos.

  I nod, smiling, to the customer behind you, inviting him to share in the momentary deception and enjoy your imminent surprise, even to go first if he wants to. He nods back, sending me silent messages in the age-old gentleman's code, for me to take first crack. He follows it up by waving his erect penis at the both of us, signifying his approval of what is surely to come, much like the howler monkey (and his enemy, the hideous shark).

  I take advantage of your sudden confusion to gently reach around and stroke your neck, lightly and lovingly, with a #3 Phillips head screwdriver. You jump, startled, before relaxing to my sure and confident hands. My hands rest lightly on your shoulders as I snuggle and lick your neck from behind and the customers begin muttering, moving around us and taking side-bets. You have just enough time to lay $100 to place before surrendering to my embrace.

  I featherflick my tongue up your carotid artery to your chin, nibbling my way around and enjoying your delighted murmurs. I reach your ear and carefully nip your earlobe, then abruptly seize it between my teeth and bite through (much like my enemy, the hideous shark). Rich red blood spurts out to run in crimson rivulets down your throat, between your breasts and into your beeper, shorting it instantly in a death dance of sparks and flame.

  I leap upon the register, beating my chest and bellowing my challenge to all other bull cashiers for your favor. Mr. Wortley, the floor manager, accepts, romping up and down the main aisle on all fours, beating his own chest and missing occasionally. I charge him, easily batting him aside with my powerful forearm and kneeling on his forehead. He rallies and manages to bite through my calf before I capture him in a full nelson and snap his spine with a clear “crack”. I drop him and wait for the decision. The other cashiers fearfully gather their young and retreat to the safety of the high shelves as the referee enters the ring and holds my arm up high. The crowd goes wild, I've made a dangerous enemy in Vinnie “Donuts” Ballituchi for not taking a fall, and I'm ready for love.

  During my ordeal you've taken the time to make yourself more comfortable, changing into a maddeningly provocative black lace teddy, spreading credit card charge slips to soften the countertop, turning the register light down low. I stride towards you and sweep you up in my arms to kiss you softly on the lips before screaming like a cheerleader and collapsing into a heap (forgot about my calf wound). I run my fingers through your hair until they're clean and then I caress your face, kiss you softly, run my tongue lightly between your lips and teeth, casually grab a handful of hooter, and whisper sweet sentiments in your mouth.

  You're breathing heavily now and you run your hands freely over my back, face, ass, and, accidentally, Hector the bagboy. You expertly dress my wounds and begin running your tongue over me, licking in varying rhythms across my face and ankles. Blood from your mutilated ear drips on my neck and I enjoy the sensuous feel of the hot liquid rolling down my body. We are becoming as one, at least when seen from the back.

  The excitement builds as we tear each other’s clothes off, fondling, kissing and knuckle-cracking as we go, to land in a tangled naked clump behind the registers. I unhook your bra joyously, delighting in the feel of your incredible breasts as they come tumbling out into my hands, shooting out past my head and into the aisle. You rip my pants off bodily. I passionately align your driveshaft-to-differential flange matchmarks, install bolts, washers and nuts, and torque to 31 foot-pounds. Excited beyond belief by our need and dizzy from blood loss, you sweep your mouth down my body and head straight for my proud John Thomas, missing by inches and going three miles out of your way until the next exit. You double back, and stopping to spit the gravel out, you wrap your fingers around my heat-seeking moisture missile and begin.

  Oh, you’re a marvel, and everything I ever fantasized about; except you have all of your own teeth. You lick softly and dartingly, smiling at me. You kiss the length of it until I begin moaning, and then tease me by pulling away and leaving for coffee and a quick haircut. Finally, long after I can't stand
any more and begin trying to find someone else, you grasp my willie firmly and engulf me to the hilt (much like my enemy, the hideous shark). Oh god, the feel of it! Your hot, wet, willing mouth, your talented tongue, the indescribable feel of your velvety soft uvula bouncing off the head of my manmeat.

  Okay, now that I think about it, when I fantasized about you, you were usually tied to a Burger King deep fryer and I was dripping onion ring batter all over your insteps as you sang the Meow Mix song over and over in a sultry voice. But this is pretty good too.

  Anyway, there you are huffing my choad, licking quickly around the sensitive underside to rise up and forcefully take thirteen inches all the way down your throat, which causes me to cry out since I only have five. I can feel the need surging within me as my boiling juices race from my balls and surge (did I use surge already? Okay, okay, fire? Spurt? Ooze? Rush? Rush. ) rush up my enraged whanger, only to stop before I lose control completely due to your expert timing and your thoughtful placement of a hose clamp. Your raise your head up, smiling innocently and turning your head slightly to hock out an errant hair and reposition your gum.

  I push you down, impatient and aware of the audience reaction, to gently slide my hands between your legs and touch your flower. It’s a beautiful creature, shy and factory-fresh. I caress your womanhood gently, first with just the one fist to give you time to become accustomed to the new sensations, then with my more imaginative strokes. With the fingers of one hand I carefully circle your clitoris without touching it. I keep my other hand firmly on your hip to keep you motionless and because I really like hips. I lightly touch your clit with just the tip of my tongue as I gently, gently insert my left great toe into your secret garden. I move my foot in small circles, paying special attention to familiar sensitive areas, watching my footing, and ignoring the shooting pains from my calf. Your moans are more insistent now as you fight my hold and attempt to roll your hips to bring your clit under my tongue. I playfully refuse to allow you this release so soon, even to the point of removing my tongue entirely and laying it on the countertop.

  After hours of loving torture and a break for lunch I throw your legs apart, breaking one in my haste, and sink my throbbing, steel-hard pee-pee deep within your bikini zone. We scream together, me in ecstasy, you in pain from your leg, as I thrust harder and harder to get as far up your love canal as possible and, incidentally, as far away from Hector as I can. I stop abruptly, teasing you, and then ram my friendly weapon into your yielding softness with such speed, vigor and manly power that you nearly wake up. I retain full control of my silk salami, easily changing speeds and motions for almost thirty seconds before spurting helplessly around the room and collapsing in a snoring heap (much like my enemy, the hideous shark).

  The next morning, when you awaken to the approaching sirens and realize my spunk has glued us (and Hector) irrevocably to the floor mat, you squeeze your thighs lovingly around me (eliciting small whimpers of despair from my sleeping, drooling form) and think back over our wild night of passion. Then you get me a beer.

  And maybe, after bail is posted and we get to know each other, we could, you know, maybe go out or something. Write me.

  -------------------------

  Make Mine Vanilla

  The following is an excerpt from the nearly-exciting new book, “Make Mine Vanilla,” by Kurt Hanrehan, coming out this fall from Missionary Press.

  Has sex gotten boring for you? Does it seem like it's hardly worth it to test the eyehooks in the ceiling anymore, or oil the harnesses, or schedule everyone for the weekend orgy? Have you ever been licking your master's tire treads clean and suddenly realized you'd rather watch TV? Does the thought of your lover pissing on you from atop of the china cabinet just not hold the thrill it used to? Do you ever find yourself staring at your pierced labia and just wondering “why?”

  Don't fret, little fuckaroo. You just need to limit your sex life.

  It's a common complaint these days. After years of civil rights movements, increased sexual awareness, lessened social stigmas, and an unavoidable all-absorbing flood of ever-more-explicit sex in all forms of media, people were encouraged to open up their drab sexual lives and embrace the weird. Ropes, chains, diapers, groups of thirty at a time, inserting chunks of lead through various organs, controlled asphyxiation, phone sex, cybersex, tantric sex, furry sex, hot wax, fetishes of all sorts, humiliation, four hour orgasms, and even aggravated celibacy have all broken the taboo barrier and are all now commonplace. And that's the problem. You're jaded. You have no new sticky vistas, no shining sexual edge to seek. You pushed the envelope and now it's gone. So what now? Take up gardening? Spend time with the needy? Pay more attention to your family?

  No! It's time for you to try the last unexplored sexual lifestyle, with sexual techniques that have been passed down for thousands of years. Vanilla sex. Just like your parents used to do. Well, maybe your grandparents. Or the elderly neighbors.

  Vanilla sex is comprised of a small variety of sexual maneuvers acted out by two (2) people. Paraphernalia is limited to non-decorative, non-vibrating birth control and a limited range of toys. But that hardly begins to touch on the wonders and magic of vanilla sex. Just look at the advantages:

  Dramatically shortened prep time, leaves more time for late night television

  No special equipment needed, a big money-saver

  Fast cleanup; no worries about rust, wear or dry rot

  Convenient positions leave hands and mouths free

  Less chance of injuries from restraints, chokers, electrical shock or accidental drowning

  Easier to become presentable when unexpected guests arrive, e.g. parents, campus security, the Rapture, the pizza guy

  It can be performed nearly anywhere, without special loadbearing rafters or reinforced bannisters

  Less frantic movement is involved, which means there's less chance you'll be distracted and miss any of the game

  Lessened chance of children, visitors or pets accidentally finding your favorite rubber devices

  Usually over before your cigarette goes out

  With care, you might not even wake her

  To illustrate, I'll describe a typical sexual act for you now. Much of it may seem strange, even perverted, to you, but it is important that you keep an open mind. Many, many billions of people have participated in similar acts; there is no shame for you if you find that you enjoy them as well. Or at least not much shame, anyway.

  This act will be performed by a man and a woman. It can be done with same-sex couples — homosexuals can be just as bland as anyone else — but there is a greater chance of alternative techniques to creep in.

  The man and woman may sit and talk to each other, possibly flirting and teasing each other into a mild state of sexual readiness. Alcohol and “Barry White” music may be involved. Either person may initiate contact, by touching the other's face or hair, or by leaning forward for a kiss. No money should change hands. Some preliminary cuddling and sex play continues, during which most or all of the clothing may be removed (carefully, so that it may be worn again) and oral sex may be enjoyed. Be careful not to use anything exotic or organic here, although canned whipped cream is just clichéd enough to be okay.

  Once the approved level of arousal is reached by both lovers (or at least by the guy), sexual intercourse may be initiated. The woman lays back on a bed or a couch and the man lowers himself over her. Please note that he does not place his boot on her head, or even bind her in any way. In return she does not whip or strike him, nor does she verbally abuse him in any way. That comes later, after the impotence is discovered. The man inserts his reasonably stiffened penis into her vagina (she may assist him) (she may need to) (who are we kidding) and begins to thrust in and out in a rhythmic motion.

  Um. That's it.

  Well, she could flip over, or even get on top, and he can lift her in the air or maybe switch back and forth between oral sex and intercourse, but otherwise that's pretty much it. But just think: after a
few months of this, even the simplest featherplay will seem like a deviant and sinful indulgence. And doesn't that make it all worthwhile?

  -------------------------

  Self-Paced Course

  I never realized getting a soda could be such a spiritual relief. Just opening the door and feeling the cool, refrigerated air spill out over my feet helped me drift into a calm and serene state of mind and helped me clear my thoughts of any unwelcome intrusions.

  Say, for example, the direction that the conversation in the living room had just taken. It certainly wasn't the first dirty talk the three of us had ever had, but I wasn't comfortable with the direction it was going and my possible involvement in it so I fled, discreetly, to let my wife and my sister-in-law work it out amongst themselves.

  I sat on my haunches and prepared myself mentally to select the one true cola from its brotherhood of six, all the while distracted by the rising, giggly voices in the other room and the fact that I hadn't the slightest idea what a “haunch” was. After an appropriate appraisal I made my choice, drew it from its plastic harness and stood erect bearing the Coke that proved me to be Vincent, rightful king of all England!

  Through the walls, darkly, a sign that the back-and-forth had reached the point I was hoping to avoid: “He won't? !?” I cringed and decided to make the heart grow fonder for a while. It was a nice night for a walk.

  Nicole was sitting on the edge of the bed running a brush through her long golden hair, over and over, when I sat next to her. “Where were you off to tonight?” she asked.