NONSTANDARD DISCLAIMER: This features people doing stupid things – stupid things that can kill you – or worse. Rather than imitating this story, go watch "Jackass" and try those stunts – it will be safer and will make for better video.

 

Cooking With Chocolate, This Week on Marla Stiebert Living

by: Pirategrrl
© 2001

 

1. WE ARE THE FIRST GENERATION RAISED WITHOUT RELIGION.

I was in another place.

Napping, I was face first on the couch, deep into one of those Sunday afternoon t-shirt and underpants deep sleeps. Lying there, I was sort of aware that the television glowed with pictures of chimpanzees at a zoo in Miami that had been devastated by a hurricane. The news was running footage of chimps wandering through the detritus that had been their pen. Of course they had no idea that it was detritus and they treated each other just as they did before the hurricane.

My Aunt Jan squashed my fascination with chimpanzees when I was ten. She said that we only loved chimps when they showed human behavior – greed, selfishness, anger – because the chimps proved that those low motivations were not unique to humans, which relieved us of the burden of our evil. Ever since, chimps were this hair-covered manifestation of all of the horrors that humans could commit to each other. I looked at a chimp and felt guilty.

A door closed, then a voice yelled "shit."

"You are such a pig," said my roommate Ethan, whining in that upper Midwest "I don’t have an accent" Detroit patois. "You totally schmegged the sink again." The ability of these Michigan-bred folks to screech like a modem logon sound then deny that they had an accent was self delusional to the same extent as middle managers working for failing companies who continued to invest their savings in the stock of their about-to-be-dead employer.

I, on the other hand, never felt like I was "from" anywhere. Home to me is a shared electronic dream of cartoons, sitcoms and national tragedies. I prided myself on my absence of any sort of regional accent, speaking in the flat affect popularized by newscasters and unemployed actors who record voicemail prompts.

"What," I said, reluctantly dragged back to consciousness by the pinprick needles of Ethan’s nasal squawks.

"The dishes!!!" he shouted. "I leave for the weekend and the kitchen looks like a combination ant farm and yogurt factory."

"What are you talking about," I said, swinging my legs around the couch to sit up. With a plop I put my left foot in the half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms that was on the floor, having been yesterday’s brunch.

For as long as we had lived together, Ethan and I had these cleanliness fights. I actively rebelled against the idea of spending energy to keep a neat apartment – I spent all week in Corporate America’s ideal of cleanliness and control so that the apartment was to me a refuge from all that pretense. See, I worked for an advertising agency, as a drone in sector 7g. It was a good agency – the one that invented classic terms like "Flavor Crystals" and "Choc-ulicious." The job paid well, and I had a chance to work on some cool campaigns, like the one for that beer company where the Jewish guys all shout "Shalooooooom" at each other and thereby sparked an international trend. But everything about work –the sterile cubicles, the surgical suite conference rooms, the hygienic presentations – was scrubbed so clean that the soul was taken out of it.

Ethan had a different approach to cleanliness than I did – being clean was his way of getting control over one aspect his life that otherwise overwhelmed him. He was one of those obsessively neat people whose cracked, red, raw hands, combined with cases of soap and hours in the bathroom, bespoke a hand washing compulsion of the worst order.

This time though, it was actually worse than Ethan realized. Over the weekend, there were no clean spoons, so I had eaten some of his cottage cheese with a black plastic shoehorn that he kept in the coat closet. I chuckled at the thought of him putting his shoes on tomorrow morning.

"How many times do I have to scream at you before you start living even a remotely sanitary life?" Ethan said, pulling at his hair for either dramatic effect or to demonstrate the effectiveness of the extra strength Rogaine that he hoped would stem the desertification of his scalp. He let out one last grunt of exasperation, went to the bathroom and slammed the door. I heard the water in the sink start to run.

Ethan was for the most part ok – he made sure that the light bills got paid, and when I was running low on food I could always harvest some of his. But I mostly avoided him, and spent my time with other people in our four-story walkup on Chicago’s near Northside. We had a good building; when it was built one hundred or so years ago it was the sort of place that successful immigrants would have felt lucky to have as their first apartment after a tenement. But over time urban living grew tiresome. Our grandparents’ generation abandoned places like these sixty years ago for Evanston and Skokie, looking for lawns with post-war optimism.

Recently, people my age, fresh from colleges and graduate schools with jobs in the Loop, disposable income and no time for commuting or mowing, flocked to these neighborhoods with their somewhat affordable rents, access to mass transit and bars. This building was no different, and the two guys across the hall were drawn from my demographic.

One guy, Dex, was from downstate Illinois – a place where the earnest descendants of northern Europeans immigrants farmed, voted Republican and lead otherwise wholesome lives. Some of their children got some rogue gene that lead them to the City, where they lived out a proto-bohemian existence with other crypto-liberals, troubled by how their parents would react to yardless neighborhoods filled with crime, ethnic people, homosexuals and Democrats. Dex was not one of those guys. He came to town looking for some serious poontang as an alternative to growing up. Ten years from now, Dex would wake up working for some medium sized company, driving a medium sized car and spending too much time in airport hubs with a briefcase filled with promotional materials, diskettes and Altoids. He calls everyone he met "buddy" or "chief" and would be a punch line to a joke. But now, his ham-fisted efforts at seduction often left him alone, except when he actually managed to score with some troll-like woman, who was either drunk or using Dex as a self-destructive masturbation alternative. Or did I mean as a maturation alternative?

Dex’s roommate was Mats. All that I knew about Mats was that his company, a Swedish cell phone maker, had transferred him to their American subsidiary for a two-year shift. But that was about all that any of us knew about him because he never said more than three words, and was therefore a sort of blank canvas on which everyone could fill in with their own impressions. I wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable speaking English or was just always drown out by Dex telling self-aggrandizing stories of sexual encounters.

But together they were loose and relaxed in ways that eluded Ethan, so I spent most of my time with them. We would go out to the Three Anchors for ribs, to the Rush Street bars to laugh at the Naperville girls and tourists, or just hang out in their apartment.

Figuring that Ethan needed his space, and secretly hoping that he would drive his obsessiveness into cleaning the kitchen, I went across the hall to Dex and Mats’ place. It was Sunday, May 6, the last day of Survivor IV, the Arctic Adventure. Like the rest of America, Dex, Mats and I were totally sucked into this show featuring scheming bastards marooned in the Alaskan tundra, conspiring to backstab each other in the hope of being the last Survivor and taking a million dollar prize. It was like garden variety office politics, except that it was outside and televised.

They already had Survivor on, and were sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Dex was predictable in a comfortable way; everything had the prospect of being turned into a competition; the last episode of Survivor was no exception.

"I know man," he said, "let’s do ‘Sewer-vivor.’ We’ll put the name of each of the three remaining Survivors on a sheet of paper, and we’ll each draw one. If your Survivor gets kicked off first, then you have to drink a teaspoon of garbage juice."

Garbage juice was a running joke for the three of us. It started when Dex and Mats were too lazy to take out their trash for like two weeks. By the time they got around to hauling out their waste, the trash bag tore and a small stream of repugnant liquid flowed from the bottom. Dex was first with a name for the clotted discharge – garbage juice. We immediately started speculating about the biochemical processes that lead to the birth of that juice. It was like those conversations when you were twelve and sleeping over at your friend’s house: who would win the ultimate street fight, a super speedy Asian kung fu guy or a big fat white hillbilly who could lift a fridge and take a punch?

Being competitive men, we extended that discussion to speculation as to which combination of ingredients would spawn the most fetid fluid.

Thusly "garbage juice" entered our collective vocabulary. Every few weeks, we would put a trash bag in that closet that had the water heater and radiator piping, leave it for a week, then smell the results.

My entry of coffee grinds, oatmeal, orange juice concentrate and breakfast sausage was nasty, but nothing compared to the stench from Dex’s combination of black beans, tofu, lemon grass and curry. We laughed at the creation of the world’s first Asian-fusion filth.

But drinking garbage juice was new. The loser would be lucky to get off with only a nasty case of food poisoning. Not that the possibility of days of vomiting would dissuade any of us; we were all in our early twenties and therefore immortal. Shit, Dex once drank a shot glass full of that fluorescent green goo in a glow stick and lived to tell the tale.

So we started our little game of Sewer-vivor. We drew names – I got Cody, the dopey former Marine from Kansas who won almost every immunity challenge; I was safe.

As the show went on, we upped the stakes, and every time our Survivor made a bitchy interpersonal comment, you had to drink a beer.

By the time that the vote came, we each had more than eight beers and were all pretty lit. We were debating whether Tracy, the 45-year-old housewife, had fake boobs. Dex was sure that they were siliconed, and was decrying how skanky older women were in general. I suggested that he cut her some slack. Our argument was raging when the votes were totaled.

Cody was booted off; I lost.

"DUDE," Dex yelled, "the tribe has spoken!"

This week’s garbage juice was Mats’s combination of creamed herring, salmon skin, aquavit and caraway seeds, sort of like the dark underside of Scandinavian cuisine. Dex pierced the bag, and let a Dixie cup worth of the foul liquid out. It was a cloudy, unnaturally greenish color – like Surge or Mountain Dew.

Dex handed the small cup to me, as Mats turned the volume up on the Cranberries CD that he had on, and that creepy Irish chick was shouting "Zombie, Zommmbie, ZOOOOMMMBIE AY AY AY OH OH OH OH." I raised it up, and asked that they wish me luck. I took a deep breath, inhaling the pungence of the cup of unholiness just below my nose.

"Wait wait," Mats said. His voice was surprisingly high pitched.

"What?" I said.

"Dude, that music was a wicked touch, but now you’re just trying to psych him out," said Dex. "It’s bad enough he has to drink it. You don’t have to make him suffer."

"No, no, we need to say a prayer for him," Mats said.

"You’re Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, laying some wicked shit on the sombitch right before you pop a cap on his ass," Dex said.

Mats ignored Dex, and started what must have been some earnestly felt prayer, as he gestured wildly, his voice rising and falling in a sing-songy cadence that was like a sermon from a Baptist revival tent pitched just south of Stockholm. If you want to imagine it, think of Max von Sydow in some Bergman film speaking with the inflections of Jimmy Swaggart begging for donations on behalf of a nine hundred foot tall Jesus.

I always felt a sense of loss as I heard people being religious. My parents self-identified as some sort of amorphous Protestant faith, though we never went to church or did anything observant. Oh sure, we had a tree for Christmas and a ham for Easter, but there was absolutely no spirituality when I was being raised. To me, Jesus was like sex and I was impotent in the days before Viagra. Everyone talked about how good sex felt, showed me their porn and built their lives around sex, while I was forever cut off from an orgasm. I never denied that the existence of Jesus was real to these people, but it never really connected to anything within me.

Mats finished his prayer, and nodded at me.

Dex was squirming with excitement like Sheriff Roscoe watching as Boss Hogg plotted some scheme to lay on those darn Duke boys.

I pinched my nose and threw it back.

I opened my eyes; blackness started at the corners of my vision and moved quickly towards the center, as my once firm grip on conscious relaxed and simply let go.

 

2. YOU ARE NOT YOUR BODY

I blinked for a moment blinded by bright lights, stunned by the buzzing of activity. The voices filtered through first, talking about lighting, makeup and camera angles. Next my eyes adjusted to the glare, and I saw that I was on some sort of set, and felt that I was the object of the activity. I raised an arm to block the blinding light from my rapidly adjusting eyes.

There was a large television monitor to my left filled with the image of a blonde figure raising her hand in front of her eyes. I quickly changed hands, and the figure on the screen did the same. It was a moment from a bad sitcom or Scooby Doo, where I was moving one direction then the other to see if the figure in the monitor would do the same, to find out if the figure was me or some sort of ghost.

Every time I moved, the figure in the monitor did exactly the same thing. I looked down and saw a set of carefully manicured nails at the ends of unfamiliar hands. I looked back at the monitor, my eyes completely adjusted.

The moment was instant recognition; it was Marla Stiebert in the monitor.

That meant – damn – I was Marla Stiebert, TV’s queen of neat and home projects. Housewives the world over worshipped me for my creative reinventions of pre-Industrial revolution craftwork as post-modern hobbies. The episode where she installed the backyard blacksmith forge still ranked as one of the highest ranked episodes of daytime television ever.

I watched in the monitor as I gave that patented Marla Stiebert half-smile.

You are probably thinking, hmmm, why didn’t this guy totally freak out. After all, I closed my eyes after downing a shot of liquid filth and woke up in the body of the greatest neat freak in the history.

It seems strange, but at the time it did not feel like that big of a deal.

Not satisfied with that explanation? Think about this for a moment. Our perceptions of life can change completely and in an instant, yet feel completely natural. The best example I can think of is having sex with a condom. You are pounding away on your girlfriend – she is begging you – more baby more baby give me more dick baby – until the two of you come together in this volcanic expulsion of 10ccs of human magma. You return to the consciousness of the rest of your body – the tingliness on the backs of your thighs, the sweat growing cold between your shoulder blades, breathing slowly returning to normal. So you roll off and wag your condom-sheathed shrinking schlong in the direction of your girlfriend. Ask her to take it, and you will see my point: that dick that she was begging you for not twelve seconds earlier is suddenly the most disgusting thing imaginable. And here is the truly funny part: she will look at you like YOU are the crazy one for suggesting it, notwithstanding the fact that she was begging for every inch of your blessed boner not thirteen seconds earlier. Standing there, grinning at the camera was another one of those moments where life’s sudden transitions – from cock craving to disgust, from twenty-something to TV star.

A man looked at me and said "Aaaaand, action."

I looked up and started reading from the cue cards next to "Marla."

"Today we have chef Antonio Villalobos, from New York’s Oaxaca Vaca, the finest Mexican restaurant on the East Coast," I reached out and put my right hand behind the small, dark haired ethnic man who had appeared beside me.

I kept reading. "Antonio and I will be making a traditional Mexican feast."

"Thank joo," he said, turning the "y" sound into a hard j with a rather authentic accent.

"Joo are welcome," I said, returning the favor with a half-smile. Shit, I may look like Marla Stiebert but that relentless sort of uncomfortable irony was purely me. "Here we have the authentic black bean soup," I said, looking down and gesturing towards one of the bubbling pots on the range. "I can see that you don’t use pork or butter to flavor the soup."

"MEAT! BUTTER!" he shrieked. "But what about our vegan friends that this soup was designed for?"

I raised an eyebrow and turned to the camera. "For those of you who don’t know, vegans are a type of vegetarian. Not only do they refuse meat, but also eschew any product that they claim ‘exploits animals.’ This is why when the rest of your family was enjoying that rack of Easter lamb, and you offered a cheese sandwich to your niece with the ring through her nose, she got all haughty, then grazed in the backyard."

"So Antonio," I said, "rather than figuring out flavorless ways to make soup, why don’t you show us how to make burritos, the traditional Mexican entrée of meats or fillings wrapped in flour tortillas."

His hands were a mad little storm of activity, folding, wetting and forming little burritos. In a bewildering few seconds he had taken the filling and made a large pile of burritos.

"That was simple, no?" he said, and gestured toward the mound of his creation.

"Antonio, that was more confusing than Boys Don’t Cry, when Hillary Swank played a girl pretending to be a boy to get girls."

"Uh, ok. Why don’t we take a look at how we can arrange all of this on the plate." He then set a few of the burritos on a sample plate, scooped some rice and beans, placed a carved radish on the plate and drenched the whole thing with a red sauce.

"Antonio," I said almost scolding him. "Look at this plate, these burritos look so jumbled – it’s as though they got into a feud with West Coast rappers, and came out the worse for wear."

"And . . ., finished," a loud voice said.

"Great show Marla," someone said as the pulled the earpiece off me.

"I loved the edginess, Marla," said someone else who had started cleaning the set.

"Watch out for him," said a shorter woman, who came next to me, holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. I later learned that her name was Jamie, and she was my assistant. She looked professional, and unselfconsciously downscale. She wore a her ribbed dark sweater that was looser than is the current fashion, skirt that was short without being sexual, chunky black shoes and retro cat-eye glasses. It was a clean, wholesome sort of look, and she looked like the grown-up version of that girl that you fooled around with in the Anti-Apartheid shantytown in college, or like Natalie Merchant’s more professional younger sister.

"Uh, thanks," I said.

The gaffer – isn’t that what you called the guys who held the microphone – sort of looked at me. Don’t ask me to quantify it, but there was something, a glimmer, a linger of a glance a beat too long.

As I learned later, it is really not cool to say "cut" at the end of a scene.

But I will.

Actually, I mean jump cut, where one scene – in the space of one frame – cuts into another in which some action is already on going.

In this case, the jump cut bridges the half smile that I – fuck, I already feel like her – that Marla made famous at the end of a segment, that smile that says I just did an incredible project because I am your Goddess. The smile that says I made that project look easy, and if you, you fat cow in the checkout line at the ShopKo, can’t do it too, then you are a worthless waste of food. The jump cut bridges that supremely confident smile and cuts immediately to sex. It would probably be shot from above, as I am underneath the gaffer, what the fuck was his name, and he is drilling away like a Republican in the Artic National Wildlife Refuge.

I mean, I can’t really explain how I came to be there. One second I was giving that famous smirk, the next I was half naked on a couch

I centered myself, and looked up. I mean, after all, this was interesting from a purely biological/anthropological situation. Watching him, I started by looking at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, but the rest of his face was classically proportioned

But enough, I thought. I closed my eyes, and just focused my attention on the sensation between my legs

I was on my back and the gaffer was between my legs and had started a rhythmic pleasuring of my pussy and clit that was good, really good. Soon I was lost in the wonderful arousal he'd caused and was almost out of control. Somehow he had brought my animal lust out so fast that I was somewhat in a daze. I think at that moment I'd have done just about anything to get off, he'd made me so fucking horny. This was so different than anything I'd ever experienced. He was a born lover and his smooth skin was a pleasure to touch. I think at that moment I loved him.

I glanced down and saw his big dark dick, all shiny and manly and wanted nothing more than

to be used by him, to become his helpless fuck-slave, to let him do anything he wanted to me. God, this sexy black man turned me on.

Even the thought of his shiny black skin next to mine set me on fire; I wanted him to rub himself against me, and to rub himself 'inside' me. To fuck my brains out! And sure enough he plunged in with confidence and began to thrust in to me in a quick competent manner that made my toes curl.

I had a crazy thought, for a moment I wondered if a black man's come would be white, but of course I knew that it would. It's just that I'd had no experience with black men before and never thought that I'd be under one servicing him like a willing whore. The gaffer’s willing whore, it made me crazy with need just thinking those thoughts and I grabbed his shoulders and began thrusting back at him like a mad woman.

I was soon breathless. He was humping away in me like an athlete, never missing his stride, it was wonderful to feel his strong swollen dick thrusting into me, to know that he was close to heaving his load deep into me. Just the thought of his sticky white come gushing into me brought on a wonderfully intense orgasm.

My body tensed and the lights seemed to go out as intense pleasure rushed through every pour of my body. I shivered and groaned as wave after wave of intense ecstasy shot through every nerve ending.

And all the while my gaffer, thrust in and out, in and out. It was fucking fantastic; he was like a god to me just then. I began to moan and squirm around under this thrusting body, I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that if the gaffer kept this up much longer I was going to pass out.

Then at the last moment before I began to slip into oblivion, I felt my handsome lover stiffen and my body was smashed into the mattress as he made one finally mighty thrust, pinning me to the couch. I expected to feel him blast my insides with his hot come, but instead I just felt him spasm deep in me. It was a wonderful moment that tiny spurting feeling inside, I knew what he was doing and it made me come again. I clung to his sweaty body as I rushed into convulsion of mad ecstasy.

The next thing I remember I was in the main mixing room of the studio, fresh and clean after my afternoon romp. They were running the Fred Durst interview over and over, the one where he explained why he slugged Elton John backstage at the Grammys. I mean, no one was really surprised by that, but watching Durst squirm as he tried to preserve his ego in his explanation of how he was beaten senseless by a rather effeminate gay man was funny.

On a few other monitors, they were running the Penelope Cruz interview from Letterman in which she described her first acting job, dubbing the female voices in Pauly Shore’s Jury Duty into Spanish.

My assistant handed me a cell phone, rolled her eyes, and said "it’s him," with all of the exasperation of a thirteen year old girl being asked for the forty-fifth time to please please take out the trash.

I answered the phone, and – don’t ask me how – I knew immediately who it was. It was Marty Goldenshein, the president of EMCI music, the world’s largest label, who I understood from my bathroom reading of Entertainment Weekly, was dating Marla.

"So, tonight’s the night, huh?"

"Yeah, whatever bubbele." Somehow it seemed funny to me that Marla – the definition of a lower middle class bred girl striving to achieve Waspish aspirations – would speak Yiddish.

"Ooooooh, listen to you, you are really looking forward to this, aren’t you," he said, the anticipation thick in his voice.

We talked for a few more minutes, making plans to meet that night. I hung up and handed the phone back to my assistant.

I looked at her, and she had that same look that every thirteen year-old girl has when she finally realizes that no, her parents really are not going to get her a pony for her birthday. "Jamie" I said while squeezing her arm gently, "there will never be another you, another precious you."

All the tension written in her furrowed brow was erased, and sunshine radiated from her.

Damn, my assistant was jealous! I was the Burns to her Smithers! I chuckled at the thought of Marla Stiebert – herself ripe for a Simpsons parody – making a Simpsons reference.

And there was something large but unspoken in that moment – the innocence of her affection for me fueled the ego boost from being the object of her adoration. It was an aria and a wolf whistle that intertwined to make me realize the power of Marla, and the extent of others’ attraction to her – to me. For the first time, I understood the motivation for the halfsmile that Marla had made famous. I set an impossible standard, a standard of living that we were taught from birth that we should be able to reach, a standard that we abandoned as impossible by the time that we reached our twenties. I destroyed the comfort of abandonment because I met that standard, and made it look easy with the help of a cadre of production designers, assistants and technicians. I smiled that half smile to let you know that I knew that I was the only person on earth who could fully reach that standard. But with my half smile, I could reward efforts striving towards me, as if to say you came close, you did well. I was the Mona Lisa, and they worshipped me, seeking my approval. My approval, given sparingly was the most powerful thing that I had.

 

3. IF IT’S NOT YOUR BODY, THEN WHOSE IS IT?

When you tell a story, how do you do it?

Do you think of a speech of strung together words that, when combined with a proper inflection or head nod, will convey the meaning that you want? Are you a written word sort, scribbling your thoughts on a sheet of paper?

Me? I’m a little different. See, everything is just a series of pictures for me – I guess I am what psychologists call a visual thinker. As I try to put together the next part of this story, the only way that I can really think to do this is as a series of images, combining like a movie to form the narrative that explains what happened.

There are some things about film that are just plain funny; moving pictures are a medium that just seem to work on a number of different levels. Sometimes, images work on screen, but are completely non-intuitive when subjected to the narrow minded light of reason.

For example, whenever a character uses a napkin as a bandage, it is never the right size, so the earnest rescuer always has to rip the napkin in half before it can staunch bleeding. Another example is the fact that in an action adventure movie whenever the plucky band of heroes needs a uniform from the bad guys to go in disguise, there is always a convenient guard. After the heroes knock out the unfortunate guard, and leave him tied up in his underpants, the uniform is always a perfect fit.

But with all that, film is really the only way I can think to describe what happened.

It would start with a romantic song, accompanied by the sort of montage that lets you know that you are in a fashionable, safe, clean, fun New York, the sort of place where celebrities frolic and romance is just a cab ride uptown. You have seen this sequence a million times in movies like Autumn in New York, Sleepless in Seattle, Manhattan, Annie Hall: it starts with a helicopter sweeping shot of Manhattan skyscrapers, then cuts to a subway train going into a tunnel, followed by a street vendor putting a hot dog into bun, and ends with a fast action shot of thousands of faceless people – packed shoulder to shoulder -- riding an escalator up from the subway then spilling out into the street.

Having established the joyfulness of Manhattan there is a shot of a limousine arrival at an exclusive restaurant.

Then a low angle shot of deferential maitre d’ ushering Marla and her date – the Marty Goldenshein – into the sort of celebrity friendly place that might have some availability for mere mortals, in about six months, for a table in the back near the kitchen.

Then there’d be a shot of an obsequious waiter pushing Marla’s chair into the table, followed by a close up shot of champagne bottle, the cork popping, and foam running down the side.

You’d next see a medium distance shot of other diners pointing, and waiters intervening to keep autograph seekers away.

Then a close up shot of Marla laughing, and putting her hand on Marty’s hand across the table and making firm, meaningful eye contact.

But then you would need to cut to series of close-up facial shots, with the romantic string music fading off to be replaced by the sounds of the conversation, as the characters got down to the business of seduction at hand.

"So Marty, do you prefer cats or dogs?" I said. "And before you answer, let me tell you that this is not some sort of trick question, because I don’t have either a cat or a dog and I suspect that neither do you. Really I am more curious about which of the two you prefer as a concept rather than as an actual pet."

"That’s easy, I prefer dogs. I grew up with them, I understand them, and I just prefer them for reasons that are sort of hard to explain."

"Interesting. You know that the wonderful thing about dogs is that they always love the person who owns them."

"I guess that’s true and you – cats or dogs?" He said.

"Oh, I am squarely a cat person. I love the fact that you always know what a cat wants. But think about this, if cats were twice as large, they would probably eat small people, and be illegal. If dogs were three times their present size, they would still be loved."

Dolly back, fade to black.

The next scene opens with a startling image: Marla Stiebert, lying face first on a bed, arms tied to the posts, blindfolded, pillows piled under her hips, her ass in the air. It would look scarier than it really was.

"So this is really your first time?"

Laughing – yeah this is my first time into light bondage as a girl, I thought. "Oh yeah honey this is my first time, and I can’t wait." I felt him shiver with desire as he heard those words coming out of Marla’s mouth. Damn, I should play this up. "Oh come on lover, don’t make me wait. I am so ready for you." Actually, as I squirmed from side to side and felt how naturally lubricated I was becoming, I realized that I was ready for him.

I felt him open the lubricant – at least he understood that at a certain age, nature’s moisturizing fountain no longer flows like it once did, and a girl needs a little commercially available help to be fully sensual.

He smeared it all over my pussy and ass. Oh shit did that feel good, and I squirmed feeling it.

Then that little perv kept it up, rolling his hand and finger over my clit and asshole. Then he took a finger, and rolled it around my ass. Well not my ass, but the hole to be more specific

And here is the strange part – it felt like I really wanted some sort of release, some sort of explosion, and that huge desire for release made me squirm – or at least it made me want to squirm. But I couldn’t because I was gently but firmly tied to the bed, and every time I tried to squirm against the restraints it was like a shock of pure excitement that ratched up my desire another notch.

My breathing was shorter, and centered lower in my chest. I could feel that my nostrils were flared, and with every swirl around my clit I let out a little grunt.

It occurred that I had been quiet for a long time as he worked his dual assault on my clit that I had been quiet.

"You are soo good honey," I moaned. "You have me dripping for you. Don’t make me wait please please please don’t make me wait." And as I said each plea – I felt him stiffen against my thigh, his tumescent warmth throbbing with each of his quickening heartbeats. "Oh yeah, keep that up. . ."

"Now, tell me what you are," he said.

"I don’t care what I am, just please don’t make me wait." I found the question moderately annoying, but I really felt something building through me, and I was willing to play along.

"Nice girls don’t beg do they?"

I laughed, a deep-throated full on excited laugh. "I am not a nice girl, please keep that up lover." I was getting to the point of supercharged excitement when I knew that I would just HAVE to get off.

"That’s right you aren’t a nice girl, you look more like a whore."

As soon as he said that word – whore – it was like all of my excitement was multiplied by a factor of infinity.

"That’s right, baby, I’m your little whore," I said. And jesus it was even better when it came out of my mouth. "Your little whore."

He was grunting, and gently rubbing his hardness, his burning hard throbbing dick, against my leg. So close to where I wanted him to put it . . .

"Take me baby," I said. "Don’t make me wait."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh hell yes, right now."

"Just like we talked about."

"Yes yes yes" I said, my chest heaving as I tugged at the soft bondage.

"Are you sure?"

"Shut up and do it," I said, deep throated and needing to come.

He put his left hand on my hips, and used his right to rub himself all along my slit, wet with my juices and supplemented by the generous amounts of lubricant

"Oh yes baby now please give it me, just like that."

Then he slipped the head in – to my ass.

I let out an animal grunt of desire, passion and surprise. My tight anus spread and stretched to accommodate him, and I felt hot tears flowing down my cheeks, from passion, from exertion and from the burning spreading across my ass.

"You’re my virgin, baby," he said, "and I know it hurts." He slowed his assault, allowing my ass to stretch to accommodate him, as he stroked my back, and spoke slowly, gently.

His cock moved slowly forward, then back. Slowly, almost imperceptibly he was moving easily with the lubricant and my now relaxed hole.

Then, finally, I felt the front of his thighs fully against the backs of mine – he was in all the way.

He bent down over me.

He stroked my breast, and was quiet with his chest on my back, my thighs against his, growing used to the feeling of being filled to bursting, letting my ass slowly relax. As I settled into the feeling of being filled, I realized I could grip his cock with my anal muscles. I did, like clenching and releasing a fist, and he smiled. The original tingling was gone, replaced by a warm fullness.

He then started to move back and forth, and the warmth in my ass spread all through my stomach and pussy. His passion grew, as he started rocking in and out, faster and faster, breathing in and out as he reached for both of my hips to steady himself. I was ready and grunting, giving back as I was focused entirely on the feeling of being taken in this way. He kept pumping, and started to grow with each thrust, his head making itself larger and larger, whooshing in and out of my completely relaxed, tight anus. Then the first truly mutual orgasm of my life rippled through the two of us.

"Sweetheart," he said.

In the afterglow, we were laughing.

"You should have an episode on this," he said. "Introduce housewives across the country to the joys of anal sex."

"Yeah right Marty – let’s just redo the whole show to make it a little edgier — let’s change the theme song to that classic ode to housewives – "Suck, Fuck, Cook and Clean" by the Dead Kennedys. Oh yeah, and on the anal sex special we will be sure to have that peroxided wife abusing homophobe Marzz Barzz on to do his song "Fire Water Burn." You know, with the lyrics

I’m hung like the planet Pluto, hard to see with the naked eye,

But if I crash into Uranus, I would stick it where the sun don’t shine."

"Wow Marla, you really know pop music – but that song was by the Bloodhound Gang, not Marzz Barzz. But I’m kind of surprised that you knew the quote."

"Yeah, there’s a lot about me that would surprise you. Just let me give you a bit of advice: don’t drink the garbage juice."

He looked puzzled, "I thought you liked it from behind?"

 

 

 

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