“Pass the butter, please?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do I mean by that? I don’t mean anything, except wanting you to pass me the butter.”
“I’m sorry. I had a traumatic experience when I was young. It was an older man. We were in Paris.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear about you with some other guy. I was kinda hoping we’d just keep it light, as first dates go.”
“The older man, he used thick French butter. On my ass. To sodomize me.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It was. I will not lie. As I watch you prepare to butter your bread I feel violated, afraid.”
“I’ll stop buttering then bread, then…”
“Thank you, but it’s no use. For instance, when you drink your water…”
“My water?”
“Yes. It reminds me how he would fish out ice cubes from the water glass by the bed and push them up my asshole while I was asleep. The ice cubes were very cold, like… ice.”
“He doesn’t sound like a very nice man.”
“No. He had brooding charisma, but a cold heart. He — oh, no…”
“What is wrong? I stopped buttering, I stopped buttering…”
“Your soup. Is it Minestrone?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“The man, in Paris, he sodomized me with Minestrone. He would force Minestrone soup up my ass.”
“What? How exactly does one force minestrone soup up another person’s ass? Soup doesn’t seem — I don’t know — that ‘forcible’…”
“Well, actually it was the ingredients for minestrone soup. He would begin with a large carrot. A fresh garden carrot.”
“Oh my…”
“Then would come the celery stalks. Followed by the green beans. A carrot, celery stalks, and green beans: he would coat my buttocks with extra-virgin olive oil and then put them up my asshole, one by one.”
“I think I get the picture…”
“The oregano and basil were the worst: the teaspoon would be so cold and lifeless, so unlike a lover…”
“Okay, okay: I’ve stopped eating my soup…”
“It is too late: you already put salt in it.”
“Salt? He would ass-rape you with salt?”
“A salt-shaker, yes. Fine French crystal, with a silver top full of tiny, tiny holes. He would put the salt shaker up my ass, and then have me dance above him, the salt drifting down upon him as he screamed.”
“He screamed?”
“Did I not tell you? His chest was covered in open wounds that never would completely heal. He said Life did that to him. He took perverse pleasure from the salt from my ass sprinkling into his weeping wounds.”
“Maybe we should just call it a night…”
“Really? I was really looking forward to my meal. I love spaghetti.”
“Are you sure this French guy never put cooked spaghetti up your ass?”
“Don’t be silly. How on earth can one put cooked spaghetti noodles up another person’s ass? The noodles are limp: you cannot push them, no matter now hard you try: it is futile…”
“Sure, sure…”
“I cannot believe that you asked such a silly question. Putting limp noodles in someone’s ass: it is preposterous.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I know what you were doing. You were making fun of me. You were making fun of the brooding older French man putting things in my ass. I should know better by now: no man will truly understand my pain.”
“Look, I’m sorry you had to put up with this old French guy’s ass issues, but this is a little too heavy for me…”
“I’m sorry to trouble you. I HAVE made progress. For what it’s worth, I have psychologically sublimated my ass issues into an insatiable desire to suck cock.”
“Uh… maybe we should wait for the meals, after all.”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“So: you really like to suck cock?”
“Indeed. I find it therapeutic.”
“Therapeutic is good….”
The only problem is that every man’s ejaculate now tastes like Minestrone…”
I am Laslo.
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