Sixty Hues of Sex, part 1

28 Dec
Not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.

Not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.

So I was reading the NY Times the other day, as part of my daily pretention ritual, and I happened upon a section that listed the top 10 best selling books of 2012. What was the best-selling book, you ask? 50 Shades of Grey. In fact, all three books in this horrendous trilogy were on the list. What the fuck, America? What the soft-porn-disguised-as-fiction fuck?! Are we really at the point where some British chick writing Twilight fan-fiction can become a best-selling author by writing such gems as “my insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid, desire.”*

However, as disgusted as I am by the state of American literary consumption, I am still an extremely greedy individual. So, I figured I would strike while the iron is hot. If this moron can write popular porn fiction, then I sure as shit can. So, without further or do, I present:


Part I: In Line at Chipotle

I hurried in through the door, and out from the steamy snow outside. Slowly, I unzipped my winter coat, revealing my rippling cashmere sweater-vest and fashionable blue jeans. The line, unsurprisingly, stretched all the way from the door to the counter. I sashayed to the back of the line, showing off my curvy masculine curves. Then, I saw her. She had big boobs and a nice ass, and I thought she was sexy mainly because of those things. I felt my crotch-snake uncoiling from its slumber, immediately reaching a frighteningly turgid girth.

I leaned in close, stuck my nose in her hair and took in a massive whiff. It smelled like the way the inside of a hat smells. Suddenly, she turned to me. Her eyes locked with mine, and I saw in her brown pools of eye-stuff all of the sexy beauty in the world. “Can you please not stand so close to me,” she asked, through her luscious ruby lips. Her voice was like a 50 piece-orchestra playing a song that sounds a lot like a woman talking. “Sorry,” I said, as I looked lustfully into her eyes.

My heart was swimming in the broiling pools of lust, and I fantasized about buying a split-level house with her, having a couple of children, and eventually finding myself in an extremely unhappy marriage.

“So,” I said, “how would you like to sex with me?”

“What?” she replied.

“I said, how is your day going?”

“Oh,” she stated hornily, “I thought you asked me to have sex with you.”

“Ha,” I exclaimed, releasing bits of sexually-charged spittle in her direction. “Hahaha!”

“It’s just, that is what it sounded like you said.”

“Well I didn’t say that. I asked how your day was going.”

“Fine, thanks.”

She turned away from me then, and as she turned a whisp of her hair grazed my cheek. Suddenly, I was flung into a fantasy world. Her naked body splayed across a bed of roses. I rub olive oil all over her body and suddenly realize I had mixed up my oil bottles, which explained why our rigatoni had tasted a lot like strawberry-flavored sex lube.

“Excuse me,” she said, shaking me from my fantasy.


“You are drooling.”

“Oh, thanks” I said, as I wiped the disturbingly gratuitous amount of drool from my chin.

I could tell by the way she stared at me that she too felt our sex-connection. I knew then that I was already on the path towards doing nasty sex-stuff with her.

“What’s your name” I asked, in a very hot way.

“Jane,” she replied.

“Well Jane, what are you doing later?”

“I am taking my grandson to the movies.”

Suddenly, our romantic trist was interrupted, as Jane was handed her burrito. Jane turned away from me then, and, walker in hand, shuffled slowly towards the door. I went home and rubbed one out.

To Be Continued…

*An actual line from this literary travesty.

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