by M. Christian
(07/24/02)
With legs like bags of cement, the Fat Man was led to his regular table. Sitting in the offered chair, his creamy mass rolled over the seat and around the straight iron back. Nervously, he lingered over the menu, only occasionally lifting an elephant-like head to free his jowls from their stiff collar. Then, with great expertise, the Fat Man ordered.
Served first, rushing out of the turmoil of the kitchens, was the bread. Buns soft as down, poised and inviting on a plate. Tender to the touch, with a firm, barely yielding, crust. Delicately parted, the buns steamed from pale white seams -- the crust delightfully resilient, but easily kneaded and clutched by gripping hands. The insides were velvety smooth, warm and subtly moist. Butter streamed down tanned sides, pooling on the plate: tempting an eager tongue. A softening cube of brilliant yellow slipped gently by, ringed with clear, hot fluid -- bubbling around the edges and sinking into the dough.
With a clatter, the soup was brought: a lake of liquid ecstasy. Onions, small and nymphish, played hide-and-seek among rafts of cheese, flirting with the spoon, pushing up against the firm, curved shape, splashing and faintly giggling at clumsy attempts to snare them. But for all their acrobatics and squeals of delight they finally surrendered, their furtive advances giving way to a ballet of fire and verve when tasted. The rest of the pool held tempting secrets, hiding beneath a broth of warmth and stimulation.
A fragile young thing was brought to the table, fresh and untouched. She was delicate enough to tear under brutal handling, never to be whole again, but with enough spirit to allow a hold, a grip to go on to greater things. The salmon lay sublime on a cool platter, staring out with eyes of innocence, yet with a hidden, mischievous glimmer of wanton surrender; a quiet invitation to ravishing. It patiently waited advances, the release of that innocence: awaiting a firm hand to take what she offered, lying there to her side. She waited for someone to consume her with mad abandon and the touch of a trained palate. The salmon eagerly awaited consummation.
A bowl was delivered: a secret forest concealing deep and mysterious pleasures. In a fold of green, hidden beneath a creased lettuce leaf, lay a subtly enticing tart: a juicy little tomato that darted through forest and folds, from the strong support of the cauliflower to the entrancing hypnosis of the fork. Tempting disaster, the fragile thing played with the chase -- filling the air with the smell of her slick, oiled skin -- and then vinegar when it looked as she might be passed by.
Two breasts, upthrust and firm, golden in the sun's setting rays. Daring and obvious, challenging all comers. No innocent, this chicken. Young, yes. Spring, definitely. Outrageous and provocative, stomping a shapely drumstick and demanding, in a loud aroma of heady spice, that she be consumed. Here! This minute! Now! Glistening butter rolled slowly, melting more and more with each steamy inch towards the thighs, down
browned skin with the hint of hidden, pale, white meat imminent. Plucked nude, with her thighs wide apart, breasts exposed, the chicken leered and demanded -- before possibly growing cold.
Pert. Good body. Excellent aroma. Full of vigor. No doubt of French extraction. Aged just enough for experience, not so young as to be easily bruised, and not too old to sour. A dazzling little '25, lazily floating in the glass, tantalizing with eager provocations. Comfortable to taste, to kiss, to embrace with lips, and to drink -- just as that little tart
with the good body and a distinctive heady aroma loves to consume.
A perfect cone of delight, upthrust and ready, a velvety cherry precariously poised on the brink, ready to topple into a debauchery of whipped cream and strawberry preserves. The dessert coyly avoids all advances, leaning one way, then the other. Toying, playing with and being played with. The cool dish wiggled a frosty lady-finger, inviting all comers to break her ice cream exterior and get to the rich, sweet insides.
Coffee. Steaming hot and fierce. Spicy, waiting to break free and run rampant: raising temperatures and setting hearts a-pounding with ferocity. A true Colombian spirit, bubbling secretly in a china cup, struggling to break free with steamy excitement, a mad Amazon fighting the trap.
With lips to cup, a little swish for taste -- that delicate bouquet of strong urges, overriding everything else: driving the heart and raising the temperature, the blood pressure. Wild power, tickling tongues and warmed cockles. Building towards a pleasurable pain, straining for release, any release, to escape the burning, the steaming concentration--and with an exhausted sigh, to swallow the hot coffee.
Finished with his meal, the Fat Man pushed himself away from the table and leisurely smoked a cigarette.
