Argue about whether it’s “rarebit”or “rabbit”, though you’ve had the same argument before. Do it for the joy of watching him glower like a little boy and then burst into laughter.
Melt a tablespoon of butter as you lick his ear. Two tablespoons. Lick both ears.
Whisk in a bit of flour and dry mustard – goose him in time to the whisking – and pour in a cup and a half of ale.
Simmer and whisk for ten minutes while kissing him. If you lose track of time the ale will boil away and scorch the butter.
Grate and add a half-pound of sharp cheddar, a bit of horseradish and a clove of garlic. Lick the inside of his lips with horseradish while you pinch the tip of his cock through his pants.
Slice and toast homemade ryebread and insist that fresh-baked bread smells exactly like good sex. Unzip his pants. Take him out. Don’t stroke him, though, until he agrees with you.
Place each slice of toast on a cobalt blue plate. He does this part while you kneel and suckle him. It’s deliciously awkward, his reaching the toaster, then trying to get the rye on the two plates, desperate for you not to stop.
Garnish with green apple and walnuts.
Scramble to hide in the pantry.
Spy through the doorcrack as he undresses his wife and serves what you’ve cooked. Analyze your feelings as they argue “rabbit” or “rarebit”. Ignore the maddening seep between your legs, the outrage.
Her husband left for Detroit with no clean shirts; the shampoo bottle fell on her toe; little Willie broke out in chickenpox; and the Toyota ran out of gas on the ramp to the Bishop O’Connor Expressway. Triple A had changed their telephone number, and the first call took the last of her spare change.
She was left with an almost desperate horniness, and she knew as well as you do that penises respond in a sense exactly backward to that of spaghetti, but still, at lunch, it seemed unfair that half an hour on her knees in the darkened stockroom couldn’t coax Averill, earnest and balding, much beyond al dente.
“Tapioca beats anything.”
“It’s lumpy and fattening.”
“This tapioca’s non-fat, and so creamy you won’t worry about the lumps. Kiss me?”
“OK.” She kisses. “What’s first?”
Get a big double-boiler, an egg-beater, and a wooden spoon.
“Gap-toothed women are definitely the best kissers.”
“You’re pretty good yourself. Now what?”
Two-thirds cup of sugar, a third of Minute tapioca. “I like the way you use your tongue.” Then a quart-and-a-half of milk. “Do they make bras like this to frustrate men?”
“I’m pretty sure they do. But don’t forget the tapioca.”
“I want to watch you do the next part. It’s pretty sensual.” Break four eggs, but just use the whites. Whip the ingredients to a light froth.
“Hey, silly, take my shoes off first – jeans won’t go over them. You’re distracted.”
“I’m paying attention to everything important. Can you reach the stove?” Boil the water in the pot before you put the double boiler on. “Gap-toothed women taste best, too.”
“Now I’m getting distracted. Get a chair?”
“You sit and stir while I . . . ?”
“Uh-huh.”
It takes 20 minutes to bring the tapioca to the edge of boiling.
“It’s thick and hot.”
“The tapioca?”
“Mmm. You’re very silly. How long till it’s cool?”
“The tapioca?”
“Hey, is your wife going to walk in on us again?”
“You want the secret?”
“What?”
“She’s in Seattle for the weekend.” Twenty minutes after it comes off the stove, add a teaspoon of vanilla and a splash of almond extract.
“So, Giselle, whadda lesbians do for Beltane?” Amy was finishing the crossword puzzle.
“I dunno, same as everybody, I guess. Hey, be OK if I ask Melissa to sleep with me? Cuz it’s Beltane, I mean? – Fuckaduck, I burnt the toast!”
“That lipstick gal with the unicorn tattoo?”
“Yeah. Pass the bread?”
“Wanna sleep with her here?” Amy passed the OJ.
“Hey, bean-brain, the bread.”
Amy tossed her the loaf. “Sorry.”
“So, OK?” Giselle was burrowing for the sandwich wrap.
“Can I sleep with her, too? What’s four letters for ‘fiduciary’?”
“Jeesus, Amy. Ask her yourself. You’re such a penis.”
“You can only make this in July? Jeez, this feels good!”
“That’s when you harvest the flowers. Just lie there. Close your eyes and let me kiss.”
“It feels . . . dangerous, doing it in your wife’s bed. Flowers?”
A gallon of elderflowers and dandelion petals. Just flowers, no green parts. “It’s my bed, too. You put them in one of those gallon jugs in the pantry – with the little airlocks.”
“Elderflowers. Mmm, a little more tongue. Is she in Seattle again?”
Add half a five-pound bag of sugar and the juice of one lemon and one orange. “Does dangerous make it sexier?”
“Yeah.”
Boil three and a half quarts of water, and cool it until you can just hold your hands on the pot, then add it. In an hour, add Sauterne, yeast and nutrients. “After five days you strain the petals out.”
“I can’t last five days with what you’re doing to my breasts!”
“Silly.”
“So, Seattle?”
“No. After that, it’s a matter of time.” Ferment until it almost stops, then rack it, top off, and go another six weeks. Do that twice.
“Twice? Promise? Then where is she?”
Sweeten to taste, and go another two weeks. “This is the critical part. Spread your legs wide and relax, completely.”
“– What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Karen, honey, licking your clit. I’m not in Seattle.”
“Karen? KAREN?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Bottle and cellar for at least six months. Complex and subtle, this is the perfect wine to drink with a lover. Or two.
She set out jam and biscuits, then turned for the teapot in its flowered cosy. Too handsome for a minister. Such yellow hair, she thought. Strong-lookin’. Be out in the world, he should. Them big hands!
He watched her move through the afternoon kitchen. As if she weighs nothing at all. His eyes caressed the pale turn of her ankle. He felt the flare of his nostrils, the bump of his heart. As she came towards the table, his eyes rose to her bosom. Smallish nipples, something whispered inside him. How would I ever know such a thing? he objected. Like fruit, it said, like berries. He flushed as she sat across from him.
“Welcome to Pemberton,” he said with his best pastoral smile, “and to the parish.”
“Wouldn’t you have tea?” Kissin’ lips on that man.
His hand brushed her small hand as they each reached for the pot. Warm, she thought. A ripple tightened along her spine. Unbidden, she pictured his hands cupping her breasts, broad thumbs brushing her nipples.
He held his cup as she poured. “This seems a small house for two people,” he said, hoping for more information. So easy to long for her to be unmarried, to picture leaning forwards and kissing her neck, there, at the pulse.
She thought of her dour brother, away long hours at the harbour. “It’s comfortable for us,” she said. Ah, t’slip that collar off him, she thought, t’unbutton the shirt and put me hands against his skin. She nearly upended the cup with the teaspout. “Gracious!” she said. “Did I spill it on you?” Such thoughts about a man of the cloth!
“Not at all,” he said. The hot tea sent a jolt up his arm; he surged with arousal. He saw her concern, grey eyes translucent in the late light. I want to kiss her.
“I did scald you!” She dabbed his hand with the tea towel. Perhaps she held his hand a moment too long, perhaps not. What is it t’kiss a man with your mouths wide open? She contemplated that, looking at his rough, ruddy cheek, the incised lines beside his mouth. And if me tongue touched his? A gasp escaped her.
He couldn’t move from her touch. The urge to slide his hand into the fine hair at her nape, to pull her face towards him, was overwhelming. He was beginning to engorge. God in heaven. He scrambled up, and then, afraid his arousal would be apparent, sat heavily back down. He imagined her naked, pressed the length of him. He had imagined for years the exalted movement of his body over a woman’s body. His hips pressed against the table-edge.
I saw a man once. Molly Hantle and I watched from behind bushes. Is this one like that, huge and red? Could I wrap me hand round him? Would he growl in his throat? She snatched her hand back and shrank into her seat.
He gulped the tea and pushed the cup towards her. “I . . . I must go,” he said, “I’ve just noticed the time.” If I stripped her clothes, would she beg me to take her? How does a woman smell, there? Would I feel her heart? “We hope you’ll visit the church sometime, come to Sunday service.” He rose and stepped towards the door.
S’pose I gripped him right through his trousers? S’pose I asked him to make me a woman? Her belly contracted. “Surely,” she said, alarmed at his departure. “Would ye take a biscuit with you?” S’pose I bit his lip with my hand on ’im?
“No, no, thank you.” He groped for words, found none. Well, then . . .” he said. Would she cry my name? Would we sweat and call out?
“Have a care,” she blurted, “the roads go icy this late of the afternoon.” Would his seed leap the way that man’s had?
He went down the steps to his car, clumsy with his tented pants, at the wet staining the heavy black cloth. He imagined her fine, even teeth seizing his lip. He felt her hand close around his flesh, and shook in the winter chill.
She leaned against the closed door, eyes shut, hands wandering over her apron. An unfamiliar moisture inched down her thigh. She turned back with a sigh towards two chairs askew in the late sun, towards the small disorder of the table set for tea.
Sex with Susan always made Roger crave chocolate.
The last customer in Bubba’s, he was propped dreamily by the midnight window. The freckled waitress brought his UltraFudge.
She dipped a finger in his hot fudge and smeared it over his lips. “Can I sit down?”
He grinned at her generous breasts.
She grabbed his spoon and dug into the sundae. “I spent an afternoon boinking Gary. Boinking makes me crave chocolate.”
“Me, too. And then the chocolate makes me . . .”
“Me, too,” she laughed, and opened her mouth for the fudgy kiss that was sailing straight at her.