by Chris Bridges
(7/13/05)

I saw her by the rice pilaf sneeze-guard. She was awkwardly ladling rice onto her plate while trying, unsuccessfully, to balance a salad bowl in the crook of one elbow, so I reached around and rescued the bowl. She was startled and burst into a grateful smile, which faded quickly when she recognized me. Ah, well. Even measured in milliseconds, the smile had been worth it.

"Thanks, Robbie," she said. She dropped her eyes again and started to scoop up mushrooms, obviously in hope that I'd set the bowl down and leave.

Instead I went with directness. "You're welcome," I said. "C'mon, I'll help you back to your table. Where you at?"

Her lips twisted like she was swallowing lime juice, and then she jerked her head towards the back, away from the rest of our co-workers. I followed her to her table and set her bowl down, sitting across from her. Before she could say or throw anything I asked, "May I join you? If I go back I have to hear Jim's fishing story for the fiftieth time."

Another deep breath. God, she was magnificent. "Look, Robbie, I'm sorry it didn't --"

"Hold up," I said. "We work together, and I asked you out because I liked you. Still do." It felt like I was about to violate some sacred guy law by talking about feelings, but what the hell. "I know I screwed up, but I don't want it hanging between us until you're glaring at me across the hall in the rest home. I'd like to be friends. You're a good person, and you're funny when you let yourself relax. There, that' s everything I practiced. You can yell at me now. G'head, yell at me, I dare you. I double dare you. Do it and I'll scream rape!"

Her lips were twisting again, but this time it was the way she looked when she was trying desperately not to laugh. "Tell you what, you can make a caveman lunge at me this time. Here, I'll close my eyes and you can --"

"All right!" she said, giggling but still wary, if that makes sense. "Okay, you can stay. Be good. You're on probation." I thanked her and set my drink down to go get my own food. When I looked back she was still there, watching me leave. She hadn't made a move towards her steak knife yet. That was a good sign.

Maggie Seger was the most beautiful woman in an advertising agency that hires for looks as much as ability. Short, slender, curvy body, dark curly hair that I suspected was very, very soft. Skin so clear it looked like spun glass. She told me her parents were mixed races and obviously they had mixed very well indeed. Unfortunately I didn't get to hear much more about her life because by then I had made my stupid, fumbling move and our first date was over before the main course. I still can't believe I misjudged her so badly. I'm usually pretty good at telling if a woman is interested in me or not (hint: vomiting is a sure giveaway) and I coulda sworn she had that "kiss me" expression right before she hit me with her broccoli quiche and stormed out of the restaurant. I mean, I don't just seize women for my own immoral purposes. I like the people I date, and love the slow process of getting to know them inside and out. Then I seize them.

I had to give her credit though: the next day at work it was like nothing had happened. I feared spiteful office gossip (at best) or an inquest from Human Resources (at worst), but I never heard anything from anybody about it. Especially from Maggie, who seemed to look right through me on those times when she couldn't avoid me outright. Come to think of it, it was unusual to see her on one of our Friday office lunches; she usually avoided those too. She wasn't a real people person. But there she was, watching the cook flip the strips of red meat, over and over.

Every Friday our office, in a fit of manic executive-board anti-disgruntlement appeasement, would venture out for a long lunch. It was supposed to blow off steam and bind us all into family. Unfortunately it worked, and now we spent every Friday afternoon bickering, arguing, gossiping, yelling, and entering into vast and complicated alliances and feuds between departments before finally ganging up on Marketing. This Friday we were trying a new place -- Mongolian Steak and Grill, over on Hamilton, where the sushi bar used to be. It was too dark inside to get a good look at the food but it smelled good; our crowd was having a great time watching the cook toss onions and peppers into the air like popcorn.

After assurance from Maggie that she wouldn't escape I went back to grab my own salad, pick out ingredients for my stir-fry and leave them for the cook's attention.

Maggie was watching the cook, fascinated. "I didn't know you liked Mongolian," I said. "I should have brought you here instead."

"Never been here before, but after Sherri described it to me I just had to come. It's great, huh? Smell that!" She inhaled deeply, which caused her silk blouse to expand and test her button strength. With a coy smile she looked back at me. "I would have been really mad at you if you made me walk out on you here. Oh, look!"

The cook finished spinning his cutlery and tossed strips of meat into the wok in front of him. A loud hissing came out of it, followed by a powerful scent of sizzling beef that filled the room as he continued to pitch vegetables into the mix. It was like watching a master juggler or a man with three girlfriends; his arms never stopped moving. I started to say "Wonder if he does chainsaws too," but then I saw Maggie's face.

She was horny. I mean, total lust-filled craziness. Her usual demure, shy, "Little House on the Prairie" expression had burned away and underneath it was wildcat heat. I forced myself not to react. I mean, this was exactly what had happened before. We were talking, she got that "fuck me right now, dammit" look in her eye like someone snuck up and flipped her switch over to "Nympho," and the next thing I knew I was digging melted cheese out of my ear. So obviously it wasn't me she wanted.

The cook? Didn't peg her for the type to like old, sweaty Asian men, but she wasn't looking at anybody else. And how did that explain our date? Did she spot a Pat Morita look-alike behind me that night and I just misunderstood? Not enough answers, so best to shut the hell up and keep watching.

Just then the cook whirled and, with a flourish, slid a mass of steaming food onto a large plate. Before she could get up I was already halfway there, waving her back down. I grabbed her plate, piled high with thick folds of beef and a token smattering of veggies, and turned back to see if I could catch her staring. Ha! Bond, James Bond! Cleverly disguised as a waiter, I shall discover your secrets, my dear!

But Maggie wasn't looking at the cook anymore. She was looking at me. To be specific, she was looking right at my crotch, and there was no disguising the hungry look she was giving it. She looked like she wanted to eat me alive, right then and there, and was willing to swallow my change and car keys to get to me. A quick mental check -- nope, nothing especially hard down there right now, although I could tell it was on its way. Halfway back I surreptitiously raised the plate a bit so I could check myself out for an open zipper or suspicious stain.

Like a cat waiting for scraps, her eyes followed the plate. I moved the plate down, and she was looking at my crotch again. I slid the plate to the side; her eyes tracked it perfectly. Totally confused now, I set the plate in front of her and dropped back into my chair.

Instantly I disappeared from her consciousness, along with everybody else in the world. She was too busy trying to swallow fast enough so she wouldn't drool, and only years of good manners kept her from digging in with her hands. Stab went the fork into a huge piece of beef and, instead of cutting it, she rolled it until there was a handball-sized wad of meat on the end. She raised it slowly to her lips, closed her eyes, and worked it inside, moaning and letting her lips rest on it for a moment before forcing herself farther. It looked exactly like she was choking down the biggest dick in the world, and if I wasn't hard before I sure as hell was now. Jesus God, what the fuck was up with this woman?

She chewed the chunk slowly and sensually, but it wasn't for my benefit. I could have been gone, or naked, or on fire for all she cared just then. She had her perfect lover and she was swallowing him alive while his juices ran down her chin. She sucked and nibbled on the end of it until she worked a bit free, and, never removing her mouth from the ball, she swallowed and eased her lips forward to work on the next load.

I had never in my life wanted so badly to be a forkful of food.

What the hell was going on? And how could I get some of it? I looked down at her plate. It looked tasty, sure, but what the fuck? What did we order before? She had broccoli quiche, and I had filet mignon. Blood rare, as God intended. I had just sliced into it and... she got that look again. Son of a bitch, that was it. Maggie wasn't hot for me that night; she wanted my meat! Well, you know what I mean. A meat freak! A beef fetishist. A steakophile. A... I had to keep thinking stupid thoughts like this because just watching her wriggle while she deep-throated her stir-fry was causing me to lose it right there under the table.

Suddenly she dropped her fork and looked at me, horrified. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," she said, hiding her face in her hands. It was only partially successful; the fact that her body was still shuddering with desire blew the effect. I reached out to reassure her but she leaped from her chair and ran, awkwardly, for the bathroom.

When God hands you something like this you have to grab it and say thank you! But did I really want to get into this kind of kink? I mean, this was one I had never heard of before, and I used to live near Times Square. Meat? Where would I take her for a romantic evening, the slaughterhouse? Is high cholesterol sexually transmittable? Would I come home one day to catch her masturbating to "Iron Chef" videos or cheating on me with a Coney Island dog?

Our co-workers were watching, raptly, with big smiles that turned into expressions of concern when they noticed me looking. I decided that friendship counted more than embarrassment and went to meet her when she emerged, damp but presentable, moments later. She dropped her eyes and tried to push past me.

"Please, don't say anything, I am so embarrassed..."

"I like a woman who enjoys a good meal," I said. She snorted and sobbed at the same time and tried to go around the other side; I moved again and lifted her chin up. "It's okay. Really. C'mon, sit down and talk about it. Or don't. Or I can leave you alone right now, but I'll still say hi in the halls and I'll still send you Xerox copies of my butt on holidays. But no matter what, I won't tell anybody anything you choose to share with me. Deal?"

She sniffed a few times and then smiled. "Only if you leave me off the butt list."

"Your loss. You know what those are going for on eBay?"

Back at the table she carefully pushed her plate aside and put her clenched hands in front of her. "Look, I'm not going to go into details, all right? My parents owned a butcher's shop. My first time was with his new assistant in the chopping room, because it was the only place we could go, and ever since then the smell and taste and feel of meat takes me right back there." Her eyes kept darting over to the still-steaming plate. My own was ready and waiting for me back at the counter, but Adam Sandler would win Best Actor before I left this table.

"Why is this a problem?" I asked. "Find a good-looking butcher and settle down. You're beautiful, you could get anybody you wanted by wiggling a few times. Go cruise Winn Dixie, they're the beef people."

She was shaking her head back and forth. "You don't understand, I'm a vegetarian. Do you know what it's like to get aroused by something that disgusts you?"

"Yeah, my ex-girlfriend. The question is, can you get aroused without it? Can you have meatless sex?"

Maggie looked me straight in the eyes and poked around in there for a few minutes before answering. "I don't know. I haven't done anything since George dumped me." Her blush brought her skin color up to match her lipstick.

"Anything?"

"Stop it, this is hard enough. I've never told anybody this."

"You told me."

She smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well, you already thought I was a freak. Besides, I smacked you with a quiche. I figured I owed you an explanation." We laughed, and I fell in love with her all over again. All I could see was Maggie; her shining face, her luscious hair, her magnificent hooters. Hey, it's not like I haven't had girlfriends with strange diets before, right? So I took a chance.

I straightened to my full height and declared, "Maggie, I have the answer for you. Aversion therapy."

She jerked away from staring longingly at her plate. "Excuse me?"

"You've been hiding from meat for years, right? You need to be exposed to more meat, um, I mean, you need to have more meat hanging around you... damn. You won't get used to it if you run away from it. There, that's what I meant. I think."

She seemed to be both amused and pissed. It gave me a 50-50 chance. "And this would happen...?"

"At my place. Dinner, tomorrow night."

Finally she lost it, bursting out with a girlish squeal and laughing again and again. I bore it with calm dignity. Finally, she got some air back in. "And this is to help me? You're not just doing this to have sex with me?"

"No, no, of course not. I'm doing this to help you and to have sex with you. Because that's just the kind of giving guy that I am. You want a doggie bag, or will you hump it here?"

The next day I was a busy boy. It took over four hundred dollars of groceries, three barbecue grills, and catering for the dishes I didn't have time for before I was satisfied. I found myself wondering whether I should slap on a little A-1 before she arrived. Look, it's not every day you get a date coming over that you know, 100% certainty, will have sex with you. Maybe this wasn't a sure thing; maybe I'd only get to watch her go into an uncontrollable masturbatory frenzy with a pot roast. I was willing to take that chance.

The steaks were just ready when the bell rang. I hurried to the door and swung it wide to reveal Maggie, gorgeous in jeans, high heels and a low-cut cotton blouse. Daisy Duke in formal attire. She, in turn, seemed dazzled by my ensemble: charcoal slacks, silk shirt, tie, and frilly "Kiss the Cook" apron. She fought valiantly to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter when the scent of the apartment reached her and she was suddenly transposed.

My apartment had been converted into a steakhouse kitchen, or an upscale abattoir. The kitchen counters were stacked with platters of beef, pork and ham, strings of sausages hung from the shelves, and pans of browning hamburger were still simmering on the stove. The powerful smell of grilled chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs blew in from the open balcony, where my three new grills were chugging away. The oven was stuffed with meatloaf, beef casserole, veal parmigian, and six Cornish rock hens, while a massive pot of chili bubbled merrily away on the burner. The table was set with two plates, wine glasses, and a breadstick jar with a handful of raw wieners in it. There was a sidebar nearby with a fondue pot and an assortment of raw meat, and a big bowl of rock shrimp on ice next to a platter of snow crab legs and a tureen of butter. My refrigerator bulged with cold cuts and turkey rolls. My crock-pot ranneth over.

Standing stock still, eyes closed, Maggie was breathing deeply, letting her entire body absorb the sensations. I took her arm to guide her to the table. It was like herding a frightened gazelle; she was ready to bolt at any second. She slid into her chair and just looked around while I busied myself with drinks.

"I don't believe this," she said in a deep, husky voice. I wasn't sure she was talking to me so I let it go, setting a glass of wine in front of her. Her hands were clenching, so I left her to come to some sort of sexual equilibrium while I basted the turkey. When I came back she was sitting perfectly still, a small smile on her face, reaching tentatively for a wiener.

I smacked her hand with a spoon. "Uh-uh! All in good time. We cannot rush such a fine meal." I bowed to her, and then turned to the counter and produced, with a grand flourish: salad bowls, one for each of us. She looked down at the only green thing in the entire room and raised her eyebrows in a sardonic question. "Please, please," I urged. "Insult the cook and he won't let you fuck dinner."

Maggie muttered obscenities at me but started eating her salad. I could see her nostrils flaring with every bite. It had to be torture, being surrounded by the object of your desire but being unable to touch it, but I wanted to make sure she really wanted to do this. This gave her breathing room to make up her mind.

Or else I just loved the idea of making her wait for it. I'm not that sensitive a guy, really.

We chatted a bit while we ate but her mind wasn't really in it. She nodded and smiled and agreed with me as I told her about my achievements in thoracic medicine, astrophysics, the Nextel Cup, the time I saved the lives of everyone in Congress after they all got stuck in a tree one day and how my penis was the original model for all the vibrators in the world because of my natural horizontal vein placement. She accepted it all with a faint smile and wide, dreamy eyes, nodding occasionally and wordlessly stuffing lettuce in her mouth. I finally took pity on her and my own crowbar dick, and got up to get the first course.

She stood up as I passed and took my arm, saying, "Robbie? I want you to know that whatever happens, I came here to see you, okay? Not all this. It's..." She took another deep breath, pressing all kinds of soft things against me. "It's amazing, and I can't believe you did it, but I would have come anyway."

Saying "I kissed her" wouldn't begin to describe it. I took her mouth, hard and deep, because she was looking up at me and the pounding of my blood would allow nothing gentler. Her arms wrapped tight around my neck while I chased her tongue with my own. She pressed herself tight against me and I jerked once, uncontrollably, when my cock pushed up against the softness of her belly and the heat just below. It went on for years, and when I finally pulled away it was to see Maggie, eyes wild and feral, pushing up against me and growling deep in her throat. I nuzzled her neck and whispered into her ear, "You know, just once I wish you'd treat me like a piece of meat."

She snorted and started to smack me but I produced a strip of teriyaki steak from the counter behind her and carefully let it trail along her neck and collarbone. She breathed in sharply and we both watched as it meandered its way across her chest and dipped briefly into her cleavage. Her nipples grew strong and tall, and I let the steak march over them. Maggie gasped and arched her neck. I lifted the steak slightly so that the end of it dangled just over her face, brushing her lips, and just as she lunged upward to take fully half of it in her mouth I thrust my other hand between her legs.

"Aaaaagmmmmmm!" She cried out and tried to push down on my hand even as she tried to reach up for more steak. I took pity on her and let it drop into her gobbling jaws. Besides, I needed both hands to get her jeans off. Clothes flew across the room as we fought to get naked like our clothes were on fire.

Her first orgasm came from a t-bone steak between her legs, over and over, within 30 seconds of her panties hitting the floor. The hot flesh of the steak rubbed hard against the hot flesh of her pussy lips, and she bore down to catch the nubbly edge of fat on her own nub. I helped matters along by pouring hot mushroom gravy directly on the flesh most in need of moisture, and it sent her over the edge into spasming delight. She got me back with a double handful of liver wrapped around my cock, and I cannot begin to describe the feeling when she used both hands to quickly stroke me into oblivion. She had two more carnivorous orgasms (one with a playful pork chop, one with streams of my grandmother's homemade spaghetti sauce running over her breasts, spreading across her belly and pooling into her sweet puss where her fingers flew and spattered sauce everywhere) before we finally made love. I had been reaching past her shoulder for some ketchup when she grabbed my hips and guided me home.

This is the part where I describe the pulsing, the throbbing, the indescribably electric feelings of lust and power that swept through me like hurricane tides, and they were certainly there. But what I remember most, even more than her pussy clutching at me, even more than her fingernails raking designs in the grease on my chest, was the sight and the smell of her twisting under (and over) me. Her entire body was swirled in gravy and sauces. Her eyes were primal and dark; a predator's eyes. Her hair was everywhere, streaked with tomato sauce and bits of hamburger, and it hung in beautiful oily loops over her shoulders. With every thrust her belly tensed, causing psychedelic designs of liquid to shimmer and splash across her body, and her breasts were messy handfuls of marinated meat, sweet and tangy and bouncing and delicious.

And the smell, the maddening, savory, intoxicating smell. If you've ever made love to a woman in a roomful of meat dishes after spreading half of them on top of her, you know exactly what I mean. Otherwise, imagine fucking a barbecue. I pulled out to quickly drop and taste her because the smell of her own juices mixed with the collected drippings of her lean and tender play toys was driving me mad. She was filet mignon, impossibly rare and sweet, and I poured wine over her lips to accompany my meal. Finally I drove back into her even as she corkscrewed herself back onto me and we exploded in a wild spasm of culinary delight.

We used every scrap in the room, every morsel. I tired out long before she did, but I remember waking up once when she was sucking on me and humming the Oscar Mayer song, and I vaguely remember her masturbating with an Italian sausage while basting herself over and over. By the next morning my carpets were ruined, my apartment smelled like a three-day luau, and we were madly in love.

We're still together, although things have changed somewhat. I now have a physical reaction to cooking smells, causing me no end of problems at Outback, and she's calmed down considerably. Apparently one wild night of overindulgence helped after all, and while she appreciates what we did, she has returned to her vegetarian ways.

She's not a strict vegan, mind you. She'll still masturbate with fish or dairy products.

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