"Oh daddy, fry it up!"

“I want you to fuck me on my kitchen table,” she purred in my left ear.

It was New Years Eve, I was half-drunk and fully erect. My penis arched, majestically against the rough surface of the inside of my Levi’s. I’d owned this pair for years, maybe longer. Last summer, these we’re the pair I had on when I caught that last fish with Dad. Emphysema took him soon after. While he was still in the boat. I had to dump his body after we started taking on water. I prayed for the strength to paddle. God dammit, I prayed.

“So, are we going? Or are you not interested?” she whispered with a sly wink.

We exited the club and began the journey to her apartment only a few blocks away. The ice on the sidewalk crunched under my boots and her high heels. It was the unmistakable sound of snaps and pops that let’s you know Old Man Winter has arrived. And what the Old Man wants to take, he keeps, a lesson my brother learned the hard way.

Oh he was the best Stick Jumper in the world, or at least that’s what we thought back then. Stick Jumping, was a sport we invented where you took a running start before leaping from a large boulder on the edge of a town lake and attempted to hit the fragile, early-winter ice with an ornately carved walking cane our grandfather handed down to us. My brother won. Most memorably the first time. His lifeless cheeks, Smurf blue after the police pulled him out, were tight in the broadest smile I’d ever seen and the last he’d ever make. He always won.

“I’m hungry, are you going to give me what I need?” she pouted as her pointer finger traced down her stomach and to her clit, as if to say, ‘Boy howdy! There’s a vagina down here!’

Oh I’d give her the sausage. And the bacon. And the black pudding. And the mushrooms. And the baked beans. And the hash browns. And the half tomato. If she wanted a Full English Breakfast. That’s what she was going to get. No one meets Stalin Jefferies and walks away disappointed. Except for mother.

“HAHAHAHHAHA” I laughed at my own joke.

The look on her face, once as fuckable as 2-year-old Papaya, melted in to confusion. Then recognition. Then assertiveness. Then depression. Then melody. Then revulsion. Then finally elation.

“Oh daddy, fry it up!” she squealed like someone kicked sunshine from her asshole to her esophagus.

I planned on it.

45 minutes later, the course was laid out. And she would soon follow suit. I removed by sturdy member from my zipper and bounced it up and down as if lyrics where crawling below it. She clapped wildly. I bowed.

Just then, like a gust of wind from a weathered canyon, I threw her on the table. If she wanted my cock. That’s what she was going to get.

“FUUUUUUCCKKKKK”

“UGGGHHHHH”

“SHIT!”

“OW”

“THERE’S A FIRE IN MY ASSHOLE!”

These are the sounds you hear when you throw a naked women on to a table full of items fried in hot grease. Lesson learned.