THE FROZEN VEGETABLE display made Angelique’s nipples hard. She was choosing between a carton of chopped spinach and a bag of carrots, broccoli and cauliflower otherwise known as California Medley.
California . . . California. Just the sound of the word made her wet. The home of indigenous blonde bimbos and vacant surfer dudes who drenched themselves in various pore-clogging palm oils, then panted like rabid dogs as they slid around the back seat of their cherry ’77 Cutlass convertibles. The acme of hot-tub orgies with big dicks from the Hollywood Hills, cellular phone sex and fuchsia teddies with nipple cut-outs. The Land of Porn.
Angelique dreamed of performing incredibly nasty acts on a Naugahyde couch while the videotape rolled. She and some greased-up stud would pump and munch on each other like snacks, eventually sliding down onto the lime shag carpet, while the slightly balding director with a roll of fat hanging over his Elvis – The King! abalone belt buckle shouted, “That’s it BAYbee! Show it all to me BAYbee! Ye-he-hes!”
She could make the Oooh Yeah Face better than Ginger Lynn and she could be making a million fucking dollars at it too, but it wasn’t going to happen in Milwaukee.
Angelique threw the bag of frozen nuggets on top of the bratwurst. Her high heels clicked against the waxed checkerboard floor of Giuseppe’s Finer Foods as she pushed the shopping cart down the aisle, wiggling her ass seductively for all of her regulars to see. She could make those pimply-faced, nervous stock boys cream in their pants if she wanted to. All that teenage testosterone ready to explode like a nuclear warhead at the mere sight of a pubic hair. Out of the corner of her eye, Angelique could see them straining to keep their eyes glued to her luscious ass.
She wore her favorite red cha-cha heels today and they made her butt stand out like a ripe bubble. Her legs were longer than Route 66 with directions to the Tunnel of Love posted every mile. The leopard lycra spandex skirt barely covered her back door and a cut-off T-shirt revealed that her man-made 34C tits didn’t need a bra. A turgid mass of bleach-blonde hair, glued in place by an entire can of Aqua-Net Firm Hold, shot up toward the ceiling, then fell around her shoulders. Her eyes were circled with tons of thick black eyeliner and her lips were colored California Orange.
Wiggle it, Angie. She bent over just a little bit, pretending to check something in the cart, and rotated her firm cheeks. Surreptitiously, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to catch the stock boys turn their drooling faces back to a freezer full of frozen food.
Bending over wasn’t the only talent she had. She knew all the poses from grinding along with Tony’s (her now ex-boyfriend and total jerk) porno tapes and thumbing through copies of all his fucking fuck magazines. Next to laughing at the homemade Polaroids of all the flabby-assed sluts in the swingers’ section, Angelique liked the letters from readers the best, and was dying to know if they were real. They were always saying things like, “The two virgin pizza delivery girls, needless to say, were begging to suck my cock!” or “Needless to say, I shot my biggest load watching her screw my brother and his Latvian lesbian Bingo tutor in the tool shed!” If these letters were real, then why didn’t something like that happen to her? Why, why, why? Her bottom lip began to curl down into a little pout. She could screw in a tool shed better than any other Slavic lesbo, if she only had half a chance. Life was so unfair.
To cheer herself up, she wheeled the cart into the Shampoo/Toothpaste/Feminine Hygiene aisle. For Angelique, shopping was a confession of faith; a cold cash belief that the proper combination of fake tan, garter belts and the right deodorant would ultimately lead her to Porn Star status. Or at least the simulated adventures of one.
Angie Lee flipped on her Walkman. How do they expect people to have a meaningful shopping experience when the air is filled with this nauseating Muzak? she thought.
I’m burnin’ up, burnin’ up for your luh-uv . . .
Madonna’s breathy squeals blasted through the wires. This crotch-grabbing, mattress-humping, Catholic Italian who liked to be spanked was Angelique’s absolute idol. Angie had all her records, but her favorite was still the first one. “Burnin’ Up” was her manifesto and The Boy Toy, her fearless leader. That woman had balls . . . and great tits, too. Angelique wondered what kind of douche she used.
She sang along with the superstar. She shook her head with such raging abandon, her hair actually moved. She pranced down the aisle, submersed in a distorted MTV wet dream.
. . . I’ll do anything, I’m not the same, I have no shame . . . I’m on FIRE!
The music pounded away like an insatiable hard-on, while her eyes scanned the myriad products available for today’s woman: feminine deodorant sprays, suppositories, intimate cleansers, disposable douches and douche bags; maxi pads, mini-pads, tampons on a stick and tampons on a string; pills to avoid bloating, crabbiness, over-eating, pimple-production, fatigue, iron deficiency, depression, moodiness and temper tantrums, which when unchecked could lead to frenzied fits of murder!
C’mon let go!
Madonna was insistent. The vocals ripped apart Angelique’s hesitation and with a sweeping motion, she dumped the entire shelf into her cart. Shit, she broke a nail.
The cart was overflowing with goodies now. Time to go. Happily, she made her way toward the check-out. Okay, was she obsessing? Maybe there was one box too many of panty shields. Maybe she should wear two at a time. One time Tony asked her why a chick would need to wear a pad everyday.
“I thought that thing only happened once a month, unless ya got knocked up or somethin’. Whaddaya get? Some fuckin’ clam disease? Haw, haw, haw.” Stupid asshole.
Or the time when Tony was laid off from the meat-packing plant and he listened to those Springsteen records all fuckin’ day and would whip out his cock whenever some ugly babe got rejected on “Love Hook-Up,” the dial-a-date show.
“Come and get it, Fido! Here, Barky!” he’d say, dangling his dick in front of the TV and swallowing a pisswarm Meister Brau.
What a low-class scum-sucking shit. He thought he was so great, and he didn’t even know he had pimples on his ass and left skid marks in his underwear. Breaking up with him was the smartest thing she ever did – besides buying those refrigerator magnets on sale.
No matter what line Angelique picked, it always turned out to be the longest one. There was always some old lady who picked an item without a price tag or insisted on digging for exact change in the bottom of her purse. To help the century pass, Angie grabbed the latest issue of Charm magazine and scanned the headlines on the cover: Where Men Like to be Licked, Lipstick Tricks, Bolivian Fashion Rage, Money: How to Get It, Find Your G-Spot in Minutes. She had a few minutes. She flipped to page 53.
She rested her elbows on the rail of the cart and arched her back so that her succulent plumbutt stuck way out. She slid off one high heel and slowly began to rub her bare foot against the inside of her other leg as she began reading the sexy instructions. Wash hands . . . two fingers . . . insert deeply . . . pressing forward . . . may feel like a small almond. Angelique pressed her creamy thighs together and gave a teensy little moan. She drew the magazine closer to her, shielding her face with the glossy pages. Gingerly, she ran one finger around the outline of her wet pink lips, then drove it into her mouth like a garden spike. She rammed one finger, then two, in and out of her lip service until they were completely covered in her sweet stickiness. She was just about to try and sneak them down to her pussy when she noticed the spy.
Two lines over Angel saw Mrs Alfaromeo. She kept glancing and pointing at Angelique, then whispering to her prune-faced old man. That nosy bitch, thought Angel, everybody probably knows about my abortion now. Mrs Alfaromeo’s daughter, Carmella, worked at the clinic and provided the entire neighborhood with abortion gossip. Somebody should gag that prissy little Carmella I-Have-No-Cunt.
Mrs Alfaromeo was now smiling and waving and flapping her gums frantically; obviously trying to cover up her spying blunder with some forced conversation.
Angel lowered the magazine and pulled the headphones away from her ears.
“What,” Angie gave her best Bored Bitch imitation, “are you saying?”
“I say, how you feeling?”
Fuck. She knows. Angelique gave the geriatric an indignant stare.
“I feel pretty horny after watching your daughter give some black guy a blow-job on your front porch last night!”
The old woman took a big swallow of air and slammed a can of tomato paste down on the conveyor belt with deliberate rage. She prayed to the fluorescent ceiling lights and told her wrinkled porker that he should have worn his hearing aid if he wanted to know what was going on. Smiling, Angel flung the magazine in with the other treats, pushed her cart up to the register, and began unpiling her load.
Angelique couldn’t resist flashing the bag boy. She made sure to give him a good view of her braless silicone wonders with every item she placed on the moving black belt. You want a show, honey? she thought, I’ll give it to you and you can pay me later.
“Total’s 83.94.” The gum-chomping check-out girl was barely understandable.
Angie Lee tried to focus on counting her cash, but couldn’t keep her eyes off the nubile flesh who was just finishing packing up the paper bags with the last box of vaginal suppositories. She imagined the growing desire in his pants and licked her lips in anticipation.
“That’s 83.94.”
She made the transaction and slung her purse over her shoulder. Meanwhile the pulsing behemoth put the bags into an empty cart, preparing for their departure.
“I need some help puttin’ all this stuff in my car.” Oh, Angie you coy bitch. “Could you help me?”
“Sure,” he said. Wasn’t he sweet? A little bit of acne but great hair.
He followed Angie out into the parking lot. Click, click, click. Her plastic heels tapped the black tar surface.
She made sure to walk in front of him, not beside him, so that he could revel in her perfect perfect ass. She also wanted to give him the opportunity to rub up against her when she bent over to slam the key in the lock. But he didn’t take the bait when she opened up the trunk of her 1989 Buick Riviera. What the hell was this throbbing glob of hormones waiting for?
She spun around and slammed her lips into his. Snatching a fistful of his crusty gelled hair, she slurped and slobbered all over his adolescent face, smearing it with California Orange. Her tongue desperately searched for the way into his love-licker, but he would not open his mouth.
“Open your mouth, baby,” Angie Lee cooed. “Open up for Mommy.”
The bag boy stood motionless. His face was more frozen than the bag of California Medley, which was now melting in the suffocating Wisconsin sun. Only his eyes were bulging.
“Lamby-pie, open your mouth and let my slippery snake in,” she hissed. Still no response. “I said open it, you little shit!” Angie yanked his bottom lip down with one hand and pried his teeth apart with the other. Her pointy tongue darted in and out of his cavity-filled mouth with a winner-take-all fury. And this conquest was only the beginning.
She began grinding and writhing against his filthy green Giuseppe’s apron. Her hungry crotch humped his leg while she grabbed his ass with both hands and pounded his scared stiff body against her loose slutty self. She clawed at his face with her painted talons and dug her teeth into his never-been-kissed flesh.
“Owww!” he screamed. The sound of his sudden yelp made her lose her balance and she practically twisted her ankle when her cha-cha heel gave way.
“Damn it you lovely little virgin bastard, you hot horny teenager,” she whispered into his waxy ear, “I’m going to rip you up.”
Angie Lee stuffed her sex plans into his brain. Detailed descriptions of coital exploits were flooding his head, but bag boy had a one track mind: If he didn’t get back soon, he’d lose his fifteen-minute break. With anxious tenacity his head kept snapping back in the direction of the grocery store, straining to see who might be witnessing his possible de-flowerment, until Angelique put the iron grip on his boner-to-be.
“I am a bitch in heat!” she cried, enunciating every word like a Pentecostal preacher. “And you’re gonna cool me off.” In a smooth move, she caught his crumpled black tie and dragged him around to the side of the car.
He was flat on his back in the back seat when Angie ripped off her T-shirt and produced two perfect melons. Straddling him, she began playing with her overripe fruits, making little circles around her rock hard nipples.
“Aren’t you dying to touch me?” Sugar poured out of her mouth. “Aren’t you . . .?” She paused, eyebrows raised, waiting for his name.
“Sergio . . . but . . . uhm . . . like my friends call me Sam.”
“Oooo Sam. I like Sam. Oooo, yeah.” She tweaked her nipples harder and harder and sucked in a lot of air every time she said Oooo, yeah. Just like in the movies.
She reached out and tugged on his zipper, but he grabbed her wrist.
“What’s the matter, Sammy?”
“You’re not sick or anything are you? I mean you bought all that weird stuff.”
Suddenly her eyes narrowed into evil slits. “What weird stuff?” She spit the words out through her clenched teeth, now just inches away from his petrified face.
“All that stuff, for like when girls get infections.”
“I don’t have any infections. All of that stuff keeps me smelling fresh and feminine. You want me to be feminine, don’t you?”
“Yeah . . . I guess so.”
“Tell me what else you want.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll tell you what you want! You want my honey pot! My carnal canal! My shaved slice of sin! MY PUSSY!” Her fingernails tore into his stained white bag-boy shirt, releasing a shower of buttons.
“You want to see my cunt riding up and down on your virginal cock, don’t you? You want to see me rub my clit? Do you know what that is? My clit? I bet you don’t, you naive slave-boy. See, Oooo I’m rubbing it now. Oooo yeah. Ooooh oooh ooooh you want to hear me scream when I come and keep on screaming as I take more and more of your thick pud deep deep and deeper inside me. You want to see me explode again when you shoot hot lava blasts from your volcanic rod deep inside my mammoth crater! Don’t you? Oooo yeah, oh here it comes baby, here it comes! I’m showin’ it to you, baby! Oh! Oh! Oh! OOOOooo YEAH!”
She heard the buzz droning in the distance. Her vibrator must have gone off accidentally in her purse, she thought. She opened her eyes. Instead, it was the annoying signal telling her the car door was ajar. He was gone.
She adjusted the rear view mirror and checked her lipstick at the same time. Some idiot behind her was beeping their horn. The light was green. Fuck you, asshole. She gave him the finger. Her tires squealed when she rammed the pedal to the floor. In her mind, she was already composing the letter: “I was doing my weekly shopping, when this totally gorgeous stock boy, who was also a virgin, offered to take my groceries out to the car. He ended up packing my trunk in more ways than one! Needless to say, I never thought it could happen to me . . .”