Whore D’Oeuvres

We sat in the middle of the house, the exact center, as determined by GPS satellites and a few guesses. It didn’t bode well that the house rotated on its axis.

Contrary to the usual desires, you were a whore in the kitchen and a saint in the bedroom. You did naughty things to me over and over with food until I was completely spent and sated, and then it was straight missionary, practically Jesuit. I fantasized partly about your culinary prowess, and partly about finishing so I could do something else. It wasn’t pretty, but the mirror on the ceiling and the clock on the wall gave me something to do while you enjoyed yourself.

I ordered a pizza afterwards. I just couldn’t take the vanilla any longer. And yes, I got it with pineapple. That belongs on a pizza, just as much as I belonged with someone who could finish me.

My aching need had needs of its own. My thoughts enjoyed each other while I slept it off in the rain, a hammock out in the cold falling mists of Avalon. A hammock, like a relationship, is hard to get into, hard to get out of, and seemingly comfortable while I’m in one, until I realize I can’t do anything else. Then it becomes a net that spins me around and around, eventually hurling me on the ground and hurting me in the process.

I awaken in pain, but the smells from the kitchen soon arouse my ardor. A bizarre kind of synesthesia brought to me by elves bearing cold medicine switch my need to savor flavors and my need to feel a slippery abandon, and it annoys me to no end. You, the failed enchantress, can turn me on in no other way.

I crush an empty beer bottle against my forehead just to conserve space in the recycling bin. The blood and open wounds that result from this remind me that I need to conserve space in my life for happiness and fun, and that head wounds bleed quite a lot. My skull, now a glass menagerie, contained a steel plate suitable for serving the hors d’oeuvres to onlookers. Voyeurs loved to watch the spices and the simmering as it heated up, boiled over and made us both fully carmelized.

We cooled down under foil. The guests rated us highly, before eating their hearts out.

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21 thoughts on “Whore D’Oeuvres”

  1. There were at least 8 lines in here that made me laugh my head off.
    (Which is kind of an interesting point of difference…Aussies say that, but when I moved to the States, it was more ‘laughing my butt off’. I wondered if it had something to do with the fact that the correct world maps have Australia at the top 😀 …but then, why say it at all, really?)
    So now I am wondering what an appropriate saying would be for the melancholic parts?

    Liked by 1 person

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