The Food Issue: Insatiable
[To understand this story you may want to read the Food Issue Introduction. --fl]
I first realized Brandi, the girl across the hall, had a "big appetite" when I spotted a telltale flash red plastic mesh in the incinerator chute. It could only have come from one of the potato sack from the little adult "snack" shop in "Irishtown." I felt that familiar stirring in my saliva glands.
I was pretty sure Brandi ate around with a lot of other guys but the dirty little cook never gave me the time of day. Sure, we'd sometimes go out for a shower after word, and sometimes we'd wind up at her place after but every time I hinted that she might be a little hungry she'd ice over. "I like you Brian but not like that. I mean I really don't feel comfortable moving things out of the bedroom." I mean, her kitchen was just completely off limits. But now I had her right where I wanted her.
I made my plans. Saturday I went over to her place early, too early for her to have had time to "ease" herself. By about 10:30, as we were towelling up I could tell she was getting a little antsy to excuse herself but I kept putting it off. We'd talked about food before, of course, just between friends of course (it's 2005 after all and younger people are willing to be a little more frank.)
I mentioned how I'd once found a recipe for homefries in a magazine in the bottom drawer of my dad's desk. I told her about how it said in a lot of places people eat them with ketchup and I could tell she was getting a little uncomfortable. I looked her right in the eyes and told her in some places they use salsa instead of ketchup. Her eyes said "go" but I could hear her stomach (I hate how clinical that word sounds) gurgle. Her lips were sealed tight but when I saw her swallow I knew her mouth was wet.
With a sardonic tilt of an eyebrow I picked up my pants, and teased a new potato sack from a pocket. She let out a burbly moan and I knew she wasn't just wet, she was gushing.
Grabbing her by the shoulders I told her "you can't hide it from me anymore, Brandi" and pushed her into her kitchen and forced her into a chair. Whipping open the "broom closet" I hit the motherlode. Aprons! And a tidy stack of oven mitts. Whoah!
It wasn't time for nicities so whipped I a couple off their hangers (reveling in the heavy aborptive fabric) and bound her to the chrome-set chair. (Chrome set, if you can believe it, the little tummy lead a seriously secret life.) Of course she tried to scratch me but I put a stop to that with her own mitts!
Her eyes were fixed on me as I sliced and diced. She seemed reluctantly impressed at my pan work. She tried to wave away the plate as I slowly moved it under her nose but it only increased the steam and aroma wafting harder and harder into her reluctant nostrils. On the one hand she was begging me to let her go but the saliva practically squirting from her mouth told me she was mine.
Sitting down in front of her I unwrapped the foil pouch I kept in my wallet and ripped it open and handed her a wipe. I think that relaxed her a little, knowing I was at least cautious enough not to risk food-borne illness. At the last minute I popped the top from a fresh tube of margarine (the real stuff, not the petroleum-based stuff you alwasy get from the furtive western europeans that hang out by the docks) and squeezed ounce after ounce after ounce of the sensuous, gleaming, melting, yellow delicacy on her servings.
With a cry she threw herself on the food, moaning and drooling in abandon. Nearly mad with hunger myself I couldn't help but watch her mouth open and close over and over again -- I mean I'd had a little experience snacking in darkened movie theaters but I'd never really seen a woman chewing before.
She was ravenous! She ate pound after pound of potatos, serving after serving. The more she ate the hungrier she seemed to get. When my margarine ran out she admitted she had some of her own. Of course she was ashamed but by her seventh helping she could no longer help herself. I was afraid it would be the soy-based stuff you get from the Thai but no, this wasn't just margarine it was the real thing! Butter!
Yeah it was taking a big risk but with 13 pounds of potatoes in me I was beyond worrying. I heaped both our plates and added pat after pat of butter. As we waited for it to melt -- much more slowly than any margarine I'd ever seen -- she calmed down long enough to point to the iodine bottle she kept in her "fridge." Chilled at the risk we'd almost taken I spun the top off the chilled bottle and splashed the antiseptic all over our plates... and then... we began.
Afterwards, thorougly sated, I looked down at her ordinarily trim flat belly all swollen from our own personal "feast" and sighed contentedly. "Same time next week?" I asked her?
She looked at me with sultry eyes. "Next week? I don't know if I can go so long without eating with you again. How about... lunch?" I was ready to salivate all over again. The little chef was insatiable! But that's a story for another meal.
