Monday, May 28, 2012
Mormon Silver: The package has arrived.
Bea Plastique: Ha! Is it still in its hard, protective shell?
Mormon Silver: No, luckily it has returned to its original shape.
Bea Plastique: Not lucky for me. :( Anyway, I'm running late and will be there in thirty minutes. You can go ahead in and wait for me.
Mormon Silver: I don't have a key.
Bea Plastique: Check your email. I sent you the link and code.
Mormon Silver: OK. See you soon.
Bea Plastique: And don't touch anything in there ... yet.
Mormon Silver: Yes, ma'am.
Sure enough, I have an email from her on my iPhone. I click the link and enter the code. The door buzzes open. Fancy! I bring along my love glove. Time for exploration.
I cruise around the room, inspecting the various unfamiliar instruments. Dickhead's paddle is still hanging on the wall. I have half a mind to take it to her mischievous butt. I didn't realize my last time here that there are additional rooms. I find one with an actual (non-rubberized) bed, a TV, and, naturally, a mirror on the ceiling. Then, I try another door, which opens to a playroom with a pool table and an air hockey machine. Hm.
The bed looks comfy so I plop down on it and begin thumbing the remote. Thankfully, the video that comes into focus isn't me in panties, but it is porn. There's no limit to her kinkiness. The video shows a nude redhead wearing a masquerade mask, lying on a bed next to a tray filled with assorted lubes, fruit, and vegetables. There's a dim, sexy candlelight flickering. I feel a twitch. Looks tasty. I know I haven't had my six servings.
The woman is playing to the camera. She drizzles lube just above her shaven pussy and allows it to drip like syrup down her luscious lips. More twitching in my pants. Oh, boy. She smiles toward the camera as she spreads the lube with her fingers, arching her back in pleasure. The bed and room look familiar.
She begins sampling the fruit and veggie tray, as Little Mormon begs to come out and play. First, she lubes up a healthy-sized zucchini. She inserts it a few inches, pulls it out, rubs it on her love button, and reaches to the tray for another item: a yellow squash. Wow, she's a trooper!
Then, I realize the bed in her video is the one I'm currently lying on. This was filmed here? Hot! I look beneath the TV and see a tripod stand and camera. Thank God, the camera is off. I wonder who ... it couldn't be, could it? Shit. It is. The woman in the video is my luscious Lovergirl wearing a red wig. I should have recognized her by that amazing body.
It's hard to resist pleasuring myself while watching Lovergirl play with her food. I hear the front door buzz and welcome the voice of my vixen.
"Hello, Uncle M."
"What are you up to?"
"Just checking out the Food Network. I never knew Rachael Ray was so talented, nor zucchini that versatile."
Bea enters the bedroom and notices my lump.
"Hard again. I'm dying to see what she does with eggplant. Meanwhile," I slide into my love glove, "somebody here was exceptionally fiendish today, and deserves a spanking."
"Ooh, yes, I was very bad," Bea admits as she removes her undies and dives across me, lying perpendicular across my waist. She lifts her skirt. "How many lashes shall I receive, Master?"
"Five should do. But, it will have to wait until my show is over."
She turns her head toward me and gives that lower-lip pout I can't resist.
"Fine," I agree. I hit pause on the remote, turn my love glove on slow vibration, and strike her lightly on the bum.
"Was that supposed to hurt? Are you trying to punish me or tickle me?"
"I don't think I could ever bring myself to hit a woman harder than that. Sorry, sweetness. Perhaps you would accept alternative punishment in the form of a deep vaginal massage."
Once again, my glove and my love--a match made in sensuality.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
"How was your meeting with Grandma?"
"Funny you should ask. There was a special guest appearance."
"No, a big fan of yours who is becoming a festering boil on my rump."
"Oh, Mormon. I'm so sorry. Did he threaten you?"
"Actually, he tried to bribe me."
"Ugh. That's how he operates. When he can't have his way he buys it."
"Yep. So, I'm five dollars richer and you're about to marry into major douchebaggery."
"That's not funny."
"He threw in a Ginsu."
"I'd like to throw a Ginsu at him. He has such nerve. What did he say?"
"He insists this thing between us is a tryst, and you'll return to him."
"No chance. You know this is real, my love," she insists as she touches my cheek and stares into my eyes with clarity and sincerity.
I raise my gloved hand and give her a thumbs-up. We break into laughter--two lovers, midday, in the back seat acting like horny teenagers.
"I have to get back inside. Another meeting. Why don't you meet me in the Blue Room around six tonight?"
"Hm, that might be fun." Oh shit, stiffness is returning.
"It most definitely will be," she assures as she leans forward, kisses my throbber, and crawls into the front.
"I almost forgot. You fucking drugged me, you maniac!"
"It was an accident."
"You will be harshly punished for this misdeed later, Lovergirl."
"I sure hope so."
Bea blows a kiss and walks back into her office. I holster my meat and climb into the driver's seat. Maybe I can get some writing done this afternoon. The distraction may persuade my blood to stop pooling in my groin.
As I pull away, my phone rings through Bluetooth; it's my buddy, Grant.
"What up, G?"
"Ha! You have no idea."
"What time should I pick you up tomorrow?"
"The shindig. You're not driving."
"Bachelor Party part one at The Purple Church."
"Oh, shit. Was that supposed to be a surprise?"
Who's behind this?
"I got a Facebook event notice from Bea. Thought for sure you were on it."
"I probably am. I haven't had a chance to sign in. Been a little occupied."
What's she up to?
"So, what time? It starts at eight."
"Pick me up at seven-thirty, I guess."
"See you tomorrow."
A man my age shouldn't have a bachelor party; he should have a nice dinner outdoors with friends, Cuban cigars, and expensive tequila. Fine. I'll play the role.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
I phone Bea on the way home. It goes straight to voice mail, so I call her office. Eric answers.
"How's it going, Eric?"
"Fine. And you, Mr. Silver?"
"I've seen better days. Is she around?"
"In a meeting right now. She should be done around noon. Is it an emergency?"
"Um," I hesitate, "no, not really."
"Funny you should ask in such a way. I have a problem with two dicks."
"Ooh, do tell!"
"The first dick--the larger of the two--is Bea's ex, Chris. Know him?"
"I do, and you're right--he's a dick."
"He's trying to work his way back into her life by buying me off."
"An incorrigible dick."
"What you said."
"And the other dick?"
"My own, actually. For the last hour, I've had petrified wood with no signs of ever bending again."
"I'm not exaggerating ... and, I have to pee."
Eric laughs harder.
"I'm happy to amuse you."
"Oh, shit, wait. Oh my god, that crazy woman. Did you take a little yellow pill today, by chance?"
"What pill?" I ask. I can hear Eric fumble around his desk.
"Ms. Plastique borrowed a few pills from me recently."
"What sort of pills?"
Fuckity fuck bubbles. It wasn't Ibu she handed me this morning. Great.
"Well, that explains it. Now, what am I supposed to do with this?"
"It says something on the label: 'If your erection lasts more than four hours, call Eric.'"
"Very funny. And, why would Eric have such pills in his possession?"
"My mature boyfriend sometimes needs assistance, so we keep a supply handy."
She fucking drugged me. She will be spanked.
"Now, I have to sit around for another three hours wondering what to do with this." I pinch the swollen helmet. "Lovely."
"You could hammer down loose floorboards. Pole vault? Ring toss? Masturbate?"
"Right. I'm going to unload a batch, soak in the tub, and hope for the best."
"Need a hand?"
"No, Eric, I don't need a hand; I have two. Tell Bea to call me the minute she gets out of that meeting."
"Will do. Oh, and Mr. Silver?"
"I'm pulling for you ... I mean with Ms. Plastique."
"Thank you, Eric."
Once home, I manage to pee through my turgidity without spraying the walls. I launch a quick batch. Still hard. I fill the tub and soak. My periscope points up at me, refusing to subside. She made me this way; it's her duty to fix it.
I dry off, dress, and drive to Bea's office. I park in the rear, climb into the back, and lie down.
Mormon Silver: I'm at your office, you naughty woman. Meet me out back when you're done with your meeting.
Bea Plastique: Why?
Mormon Silver: You know why. Two hours now. I think I'm dying.
Bea Plastique: Don't be so hard on yourself. ;)
Mormon Silver: Nice.
Bea Plastique: Wood you like to see me or not?
Mormon Silver: Oh, you're a riot, Alice.
Fifteen minutes later, I hear the clicking of her heals as she approaches my Jeep. I'm still full tilt. She peeks in the passenger window and giggles.
"Oh, my." She climbs in the passenger seat.
"You created this beast, now you're going to help me get rid of it. Get back here."
"Wait. First, open my glove compartment."
She does, and reacts like a kid opening a Christmas present as she pulls out my Fukuoku love glove.
"What's this and why is it here?"
"That is a glove compartment, is it not?"
"Bring it back here with you."
"Yes, Uncle M."
She crawls between the seats into the back and hands me the glove. She slides down her undies and opens my jeans.
"Oh, my!" she remarks at my steel beam, which is beginning to turn as purple as Prince.
I slide into the glove and turn it on low. She mounts me, Reverse Cowgirl style. God, what an ass on this woman! I reach around with my left hand and go to town on her clit as she lowers herself and grinds on my rod. She comes quickly when Uncle M wears the glove. I'm mostly numb, but enjoying it nonetheless. She fucks me so thoroughly that the thought of that other dick fades away ... for the time being.
Friday, May 25, 2012
As I park and approach the E Street Cafe, I "adjust" myself and hope the lump in my pants isn't noticeable. A text beeps in.
Bea Plastique: How's your head?
Mormon Silver: Still throbbing.
Bea Plastique: LOL! Oh, I bet.
Mormon Silver: And that's funny why?
Bea Plastique: No particular reason. Would you like Nurse Lovergirl to take a look?
Mormon Silver: Huh?
Bea Plastique: ... at the swelling? Tee, hee.
Holy shit, she can see me.
Mormon Silver: Where are you? Thought you said you had to go to the Ranch office today.
Bea Plastique: That's where I am.
Mormon Silver: Then, how can you see my swelling?
I adjust my package again. A woman sitting inside the window has noticed. She wrinkles her nose. The door opens as I send the last text; it's Grandma.
"Well, it's about time. Let's go. I only have an hour."
"Kazuko is keeping an eye on the shop," Grandma explains as she leads me to her table. "Why are you limping? Did you hurt yourself, you clumsy oaf?"
Oh, shit. How can I spin this?
"Um, yes, I stubbed my toe on the bedpost this morning. How nice of you to care."
"I didn't say I cared, did I?"
When we arrive at her table, a tall, handsome man stands to greet me. He's wearing a gray suit and a smirk.
"Mormon, this is Chris."
Seriously? Not THE Chris!
I shake his hand and size him up. He has a good six inches, twenty years, and forty pounds of muscle on me.
"Let me guess: You're the woman-beating douche who sent me flowers."
"I sent flowers to my fiance, Bea, actually."
"What's he doing here?" I ask Grandma.
"Look, Mormon," she toys, "we all know you're a temporary distraction for my granddaughter. She's having a tough time dealing with her fiance being out of town so much, ..."
"... and, now that I'm back in town," Chris adds, "I need you to go away so we can resume our wedding plans."
"Right. Why would I do that?"
"Well, I suppose I could give you a few thousand reasons," he offers as he pulls a checkbook and pen from his vest pocket.
He presses his slimy lips into a thin line, "Mr. Silver, you should be thankful I'm offering anything as you're frankly not even worth hundreds to me."
"I see. Just so we're clear, Bea isn't worth hundreds, thousands, or millions to me--she's priceless. She's also a free woman who prefers to be treated like a lady, not a racehorse."
I try to stay calm, but I can feel my face flush. He definitely can beat my ass, so I'm not going there. Oddly, through all this, I now have a raging hard-on, which Grandma discovers. She shows disdain toward me as usual.
"Dear Lord, Mr. Silver. Can't you control yourself?" Grandma quips.
Great fucking timing!
I ignore her and continue. "So, Chris, put away your checkbook, stop sending flowers, and crawl back into whatever leather-walled dungeon you crawled from. You had your shot and you blew it. Bea is marrying me."
I turn to leave.
"This isn't over, Silver. She'll be mine again soon. You don't know what Bea needs; I do. She's out of your league, Silver!"
Thursday, May 24, 2012
"Nothing. Be right there."
I stuff the roses into the garbage disposal. It grinds loudly. Bea emerges from the bedroom, already down to her lacy undergarments. How can I be mad at her when she's so delicious?
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, that was a delivery for you," I inform as I hand her the card. "I was trying to water the lovely roses and, oops, they slipped into the drain."
"He's such a jerk."
"Are you absolutely certain this thing between you two is over?"
"Way over. He's a freak and I want nothing to do with him."
"Why did you break it off in the first place?"
"He's twisted. All he wanted to do was dress me, force me to eat, and spank me. I felt like cattle he was fattening for slaughter. He used to leave bruises on me."
"Sounds like he needs a beating."
"I know, Mormon, but he's not worth it. He's way up in Seattle anyway. Just ignore him. Please?"
"So, we're not breaking up tonight?"
"Quite the opposite, my love," she assures as she tosses the card into the garbage.
We scurry into the bedroom before the melted white chocolate cools.
"You first, Lovergirl," I insist as she giddily complies by removing her undergarments.
"Would you like me sunny-side up or over easy?"
"Hm. Let's start with up."
I take the cool creme de mente and run a river from her neck to her navel. I see goosebumps. I drip a bit over my index finger and touch it teasingly to her lips. She takes my finger in and teases the tip with her tongue. Time for another sensation. I take a honey ladle, dip it into the thick melted chocolate and dollop a bit on each nipple, both sides of her neck, and in the crease where her thighs meet her hips.
"Is that too hot, Lovergirl?"
"It's perfect, Uncle M."
I spray whipped cream, leaving a white stripe next to the minty green river. This is beginning to resemble a New York Jets uniform. Not that I'm a football fan, but I will definitely fuck this tight end tonight.
Time for the fruit. While the chocolate dries on her, I take a strawberry, dip it in the fondue pot, spray a spot of cream on the tip and feed her. We kiss while she chews. The pink juices run down her neck; I catch them and lick her clean.
We take turns coating each other and enjoying the sensations: the mix of flavors, the cool, the warm, the runny, the firm. My Lovergirl is the most delicious treat I've ever experienced, and there will be no leftovers for CG.
A night of love wears on me as my fifty-year-old body makes me pay for my twenty-year-old thoughts. Bea dresses next to the bed as I wake up.
"Ugh. Could you dim that light please?"
"That's the sun, silly man," she giggles as she tickles my foot. "You had better get up. You have an interview in one hour."
"Huh? Oh, Jesus. Grandma?"
"Yep. She's meeting you at the E Street Cafe in Encinitas at ten."
"Shit. I have an owie," I remark while rubbing my eyes. "My head feels like someone is pinching my brain stem with needle-nose pliers."
"Here," she hands me a pill and bottle of water.
"Something like that."
I down the pill and hit the shower. Bea stops by and gives me a kiss on her way out. If I can get past her evil ancestor and abusive ex, I'm confident there's a wonderful life ahead of us.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The same two housekeepers who caught me in a bind in Bea's suite walk in carrying mops while giggling at my expense.
"Hello, sir. We were told there was a spill in aisle Blue."
"Har-de-fucking-har. Untie me."
"Wow, somebody's in a bad mood."
"I don't think I like his attitude," the second maid adds.
"Fine. Please untie me."
"That's better, but ..."
"Pretty please, with a twenty-dollar tip on top."
"As you wish."
They untie me and I try to get the circulation flowing to my hands and feet again. I gather my clothes and wallet. I peel off a twenty for my rescuers and pocket my gift card. At least I netted five dollars and Bea's amazing posterior in the transaction. I consider myself ahead.
I go to the valet and retrieve my Jeep. Once home, I flop onto the couch, in desperate need of a nap. Not fifteen minutes into it, my phone beeps.
Bea Plastique: How's it hanging, Uncle M?
Mormon Silver: I am going to beat your little butt next time I see you.
Bea Plastique: Promises, promises. Oh, and when might that be?
Mormon Silver: How about dinner at my place tonight?
I sure could use home field advantage for once.
Bea Plastique: Sounds fun. When?
Mormon Silver: 7ish.
Bea Plastique: What can I bring?
Mormon Silver: Toppings: spray whipped cream, Hershey's syrup, and creme de menthe.
Bea Plastique: Yum!
I scurry through the grocery store gathering toy food. The checkout clerk wears an odd expression as she types the produce codes.
"Someone is planning quite the feast."
"Who's the lucky girl you're going to eat this off ... I mean, with?"
I grab a banana. "Behave yourself. I'm licensed to carry, and I have a big banana."
"Ooh, even luckier."
Bea shows up fashionably late with the bag of toppings, as requested. I'm going to devour them and her. I make sure my Broad Street Bullies DVD plays while we eat dinner. Teasingly, I leave the dessert tray on the counter: bananas, strawberries, and pomegranate. I also have a fondu pot simmering with melted white chocolate.
She rushes through dinner, but I intentionally stall.
"Is it time for dessert yet?" she begs.
"Not until Uncle M has cleared his plate," I tease as I spoon another helping of green bean casserole.
She sticks out her lower lip and crosses her arms like an infant. I laugh at her expression.
"OK, Lovergirl. Let's have dessert."
She claps and grabs her bag of toppings. I gather the food tray and fondue pot, then lead her into my bedroom.
"What's this?" she asks as she sees the big blue tarp covering my bed.
"I can't afford your architect, so this baseball mound cover will have to do for my version of a Blue Room."
It's often wise to improvise.
Naturally, as we're about to dine on each other, the doorbell rings.
"Are you kidding me? If this is people here to talk about Jesus, I'm going to send them to meet him."
"I'll do a little grounds maintenance while you're gone," Bea offers as she begins undressing.
I answer the door to a delivery man holding a dozen red roses. WTF? Did Bea send me roses? There's a note attached.
Dearest Bea, I hope you and your future ex-lover enjoy your break up sex. I'll be waiting. CG
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
As we make love on the edge of the tub, my jealous thoughts of Chris G. subside. Her second orgasm is explosive as I'm beginning to learn how to push her love buttons.
We dry off, put on soft robes, and return to the play area. I fiddle with the straps on the funky swing, trying to imagine what goes where and how.
"The next time we make love, I want you to tell me exactly what you want and how you want it," I suggest.
"As long as you talk dirty to me."
"Not really; you're more like PG. I prefer triple-X."
"Really? Like what?"
"I don't, otherwise I'd comply ... probably. I say 'fuck' a lot. That's good, right?"
"Sure, but there are other naughty words."
"Oh, that's right: you're into hockey stuff. OK, how about punishment for 'High Dicking,' 'Cross-Licking,' and 'El-blowing' penalties?"
"Funny. No, I mean other swear words."
"I can't say them. I don't swear, remember?"
"Fine. I'll say a swear word and you give me a hotness reading on a scale of one to ten, with ten being sizzling. Cool?"
"What? That deserves a six, minimum. All right. Cock."
"Hmm, better. How about twat?"
"That one depends."
"Ah, I got this. So, something like honey dripping hungry little twat is good and stinky twat is bad."
"You're catching on."
We continue playing the word games, then Bea offers to demonstrate the swing to me.
"Let me strap you in."
"Ha! No way."
"Don't you trust me?"
"I'm hurt, Uncle M. Oh well. Pity. You were so close to getting that Kindle gift card."
Jesus. She knows my weaknesses.
"OK, fine. Be gentle."
Bea straps my wrists and ankles, and runs a harness under my lower back. The bungee straps give a bit, so I bounce playfully.
"Say, why don't you climb aboard, Lovergirl," I dare her.
Ah, that's right--dirty talk.
"Get your delicious cunt over here right now and straddle my fuck stick."
Her eyed widen, she drops the robe, undoes mine, and saddles up. We bounce like crazy as I wonder if the straps might give way. Orgasm number three comes in minutes as Uncle M relishes the thought of another conquest and another eBook.
Bea dismounts, walks away, and begins dressing. Oh, no.
She ignores me.
Bea--fully dressed now--changes the channel on the TV I'm facing. A DVD begins playing: NHL Playoff Series, Game 1. April 24, 2008: Montreal Canadiens 4, Philadelphia Flyers 3.
She reaches into her purse, pulls out a gift card, tosses it my way, winks, and leaves me hanging.
Monday, May 21, 2012
"Hello, Uncle M."
"This is some Get Smart shit right here."
"Never mind. Before your time. You look delicious, my love."
"And you look ... like a server who was dragged around the beaches of Normandy," she giggles.
I'm happy, as usual, to provide entertainment.
"Ugh, no kidding."
"Ready for your tour?"
"Lead the way."
The room is a BDSM fantasy suite. There are rubberized floors, like you'd see in a gym. The walls have mirrors, TVs, and cabinets. There's blue leather furniture throughout. Bea looks so sexy, shining in the subtle golden light. Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" thumps while walk.
"What's this?" I ask as I examine a swing set with odd straps and pulleys.
"Oh, that's for advanced lovers. We need to work up to that."
"Looks like a back ache to me."
There's a laminated wooden paddle hanging on the wall next to three whips. The paddle has some obvious wear and a brass plaque with the initials CG.
"Nobody important. Check this out," she redirects as we approach what resembles a large kid's pool with a raised rubber mattress and Velcro straps in four corners. "Wanna take a dip?"
Distracted, but the thought's not extracted. I'll find out who CG is.
"Mm, what do you want to do me, Uncle M?"
"Well, Lovergirl, I want to strap you down, massage you nose to toes, and then fuck you in the ass so hard you'll limp for days."
"Oh my god! YES! Do it!" she commands as she dives onto the mattress and spreads her arms and legs.
I work quickly as the NIN music and the thought of conquering her luscious ass motivates me. I strap her ankles and wrists, undress myself, and climb into the oily pool. Oil and body hair doesn't mix well. I must remember to trim.
She arches her buttocks up toward me as I bring her to her first peak with my probing fingers. She's wet and slippery, ready for me. Hm, this is an ideal position for interrogation.
I kneel between her legs, reach outside the pool for my apron, and grab the squirt gun I confiscated at the luncheon. It's time for Uncle M's version of water boarding.
"What are you doing? Get inside me."
"Not quite yet. First, I want to know who CG is?" I have an idea who it might be.
"I told you--nobody."
"Wrong answer," I respond as I squirt her in the clit.
"Hey," she squeaks.
"I'll repeat the question: Who [squirt] is [squirt] C [squirt] G?"
"Stop! Jesus. OK, fine."
"Chris ... my ex."
"Why is his paddle here?"
"Don't you want me, Uncle M?"
I squirt her again. "Answer the question."
"He's an architect. He designed this room."
"Are you still seeing him?"
"No! I love you, Uncle M," she reassures me. Now she'll pay.
"You've been a bad Lovergirl. Now, I'm going to take my billy club to your naughty ass."
I toss the squirt gun, climb onto her, and insert myself slowly. She's so tight. The sensation gives me the urge to come in the first thrust. I reach around her right hip and stroke her clit while I slowly grind deeper and deeper. I kiss her neck, bite her ear, and lose myself in the moment, while Chris G. weighs on me.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
I get a quick break and step into the walk-in to cool off. I text Bea to brag about my sacrifice.
Bea Plastique: Aw, you're such a sweetie. I want to see you in your cute server outfit. I bet you look hot. ;)
Mormon Silver: Yes, aprons become me. Now if I could only find one in argyle.
Bea Plastique: Tell you what, Uncle M, let me know when you're done, and I'll give you a tour of the infamous Blue Room.
Mormon Silver: The what?
Bea Plastique: I think you'll like how it's decorated. I know I LOVE it.
As I finish reading the last text the walk-in door opens to Kazuko.
"You slackass. Put away phone. Get movin'."
"I was ... um ... looking for the desserts."
"Ice cream, dumdum. In freezer, not walk-in."
I prepare a tray of tri-flavor ice cream, and proceed out to the table. The kids are already unruly; sugar is the last thing they need. As I approach, the kids become silent and start giggling and whispering. Who's paranoid? Me.
Just as I fill both hands with plates, one little fucker whips out a squirt gun and start nailing me, right in the crotch. Perfect. I grab the gun from him.
"Very funny. Where did you get this?"
"That old lady over theyo gave it to me. She says you're bad and I should squirt you in da wiener."
"Cute," I say as I glare at Grandma.
"Gimme back my gun."
"You can either have the squirt gun or the ice cream?"
"I throw in five bucks. Which one will it be?"
"Ice cweam, pwease."
I holster the squirt gun in my apron, give the brat a fiver, and plot my revenge. After the kids leave, the perimeter of the table looks like a war zone. Kazuko hands an odd-looking sweeping contraption to me.
I mumble to myself as I run over the same french fry ten times, unsuccessfully. A text pings in.
Bea Plastique: Ready, Uncle M?
Mormon Silver: Oh, you have no idea how ready, Lovergirl. Where to?
Bea Plastique: Take the elevator down to P2 underground. Look for parking space 243. Knock three times on the blue door next to it.
Mormon Silver: This better be good.
I finish sweeping kid shrapnel and another message pings in. It has an attached picture of Bea from the neck down--naked and glistening in oil--holding the camera in front of a mirror. Slick! I'm out of here.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
I valet at the Hyatt and go to the lobby. As I enter, a server walks past me in a huff, with smeared mascara. What's going on here?
Grandma didn't specify where I'd find her, so I walk through the corridor looking for a parked broomstick. The bellhop stops me.
"Boss is waiting for you in the lounge," he directs me.
I check my watch--12:02, almost exactly on-time. That should impress her. I round the divider and find her highness standing next to another woman who could almost be her twin. They're both reviewing a printout and look up in eerie unison.
"You're late, blobber."
"Two minutes? Jesus. Nice to see you too."
The woman next to Grandma is the same height, same hairstyle, and the same rimless glasses on her nose, except ...
"This is my restaurant manager, Kazuko Origami."
... she's Asian. I extend a hand, which is ignored as usual.
"Why you late?"
Yes, it sounded more like 'rate' to me.
"Why you late?"
"I had to wait for the valet."
"I'm sorry, is this woman a replica of you, made in China perhaps?"
Kazuko kicks me in the shin.
"Not Chinese, fuckwad. Japanese!"
"Fine. I apologize. I was just trying to be funny."
"Not funny. Here," she hands me a polo and a server's apron, "you put this on."
"Actually, I'm here to interview Ms. Aspinwald."
"You put this on."
"Ms. A? What's this about?"
"We had to let a server go, which has left us short. We have an important luncheon beginning in the Marina Room, and I told Kazuko about your gracious offer to help."
I stand there incredulous, considering my options. The Manager glares at me while holding the uniform. I can't let her win. It's food service. I've done this. How difficult can it be? Sure, it has been thirty years, but it couldn't have changed that much.
"All right," I agree as I take the shirt and apron. As a minor act of defiance I put down my iPad and begin removing my T-shirt.
"What you doing? You go change in bathroom."
"I go change right here. I save time," I insist. She kicks me again. "Hey! And, no kicking or I am going the get all Ming Dynasty on your ass," I tease as I flex and growl like Hulk Hogan. Naturally, she kicks me again.
"Not Chinese, brobber. Japanese. You hurry. Guests waiting."
What have I gotten myself into?
Friday, May 18, 2012
"I never said yes."
"An insignificant technicality," the beast insists.
"Wait a minute," I interrupt, "you're already engaged to someone else?"
"No. Not really."
"Yes, she is," insists Grandma, "I witnessed the proposal. Sorry, blubber, you're too late."
"How are those eggs coming along? Don't let them get dry."
Ugh, the nerve of this woman.
I remove the pan from the fire and try to process what I'm hearing.
"Bea? Are you engaged to someone else or not?"
"No, of course not. He asked, but I wasn't interested."
"Who is he?"
"That's not important."
"Chris," Grandma volunteers, "and he's young, successful, and quite dashing."
Bea walks over and wraps her arms around me from behind.
"You know I love you. He's just an insignificant detail from my past."
"Show him the ring," Grandma suggests.
What a relentless woman.
"Wait, there's a ring? I thought you didn't accept."
"Ugh. It's in my dresser somewhere. He refused to take it back. This is the only ring with meaning," Bea says while showing the one I gave her. That's my girl.
"Well, I'll let you two work out the terms of your parting ways. I have work to do. You can come back and interview me at noon, blobber."
I sigh and count to five.
"What about your eggs, Ms. A?"
"I've changed my mind. Think I'll have a scone."
She gathers her newspaper and purse and leaves wearing a smirk.
I'm not sure what's going on. There are dozens of questions floating around my mind. I don't want to get into a big fight over it. If Bea wanted to be with Chris, she'd be with him. I can't let this old woman derail our affair. Fuck Chris and the white stallion he rode off on.
After breakfast, I head home to do some writing. Words are flowing nicely. I have little interest in interviewing Grandma, but I remember the wise advice in The Godfather: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I'll return for that interview and find the Achilles heel on that dragon.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
I turn to find Grandma seated at the breakfast nook wearing reading glasses while browsing the Union Tribune.
"Be a good boy and warm up my coffee," she orders as she slides the mug in my direction.
"Oh, and put on a shirt, will you? I wouldn't want to find one of your silver chest hairs in my eggs."
"Grandma, what are you doing here?"
"You may call me by my proper name, Silver."
"Gertrude Aspinwald ... Ms. A, if you like."
"Fine," I agree as I carry the pot of coffee over and top off her mug. She doesn't look up.
I retreat to the bedroom, grab my shirt off the floor, and return--no longer a health risk.
"So, Ms. A, how would you like your eggs?"
"Two whites with one yolk over easy. Fry up some bacon too. I prefer it crisp, but not burned."
"Don't you have room service here?"
She's testing me ...
"Of course. Don't you know how to separate eggs?"
... and I'm not giving in.
"Then you best get a-crackin'. You have a long day ahead of you."
"In fact, I do. I've fallen behind in my blogging. I was supposed to interview Bea, and in two blinks I'm halfway down the aisle."
"Not even one-tenth the way."
I ignore her sass and begin cooking silently. I can feel her eyes. The TV remote is sitting on the counter so I flip on the TV to catch some news. Naturally, in my groggy, yet agitated state I forget the video of yours truly strapped to the bed is still loaded. Grandma snickers. I hit the "Source" button and finally find the news.
"You know something, maybe you should interview me for your blob."
"What, of interest, would you have for my readers?"
"Plenty. We could talk about my empire, how my father became rich by investing in Canadian oil fields, how I'm going to turn this property back into the thriving mecca it once was, ..."
"... or, I could tell you all about my granddaughter Bea's other fiance."
I'm wide awake now.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
"So, how are you two getting along?"
"About as well as Kardashians and skinny jeans. Can I throw spoons at her or at least give her a noogie? Please?"
"Now, darling, it's important you win her over."
"Find a way."
"Yes. Grandma is my only hope of emerging from these financial difficulties. She holds the key to the safe, so to speak, and she's here auditing my businesses to get our affairs back in order."
"Can I at least drug her?"
"No! You go out there and make nice. I'll be out in a few minutes."
I put on my fake smile and return to the family room. Grandma is futzing with the TV remote.
"Why won't this work? Things were much easier in my day; you pulled the button and turned the knob. Two through thirteen, UHF, and VHF."
"Here, let me try," I insist as she pulls the remote away from my reach.
"I'm not helpless. If you want to make yourself useful, refill my beverage, blobber."
"Blogger. Another arsenic rocks?"
"What did you say?"
"Another up or on the rocks?"
"Neat, you nitwit."
As I poured the biddy her drink I noticed the TV picture come into focus.
"There. Finally. Oh, dear Lord!"
"Now what? Isn't Green Acres on?"
"Buh ... wha ... is that ...?"
I step back from the wet bar to get a gander. I see a sixty-inch high definition picture of myself bound to the bed, wearing Canadiens panties. Fuck! It's the video from that crazy night. I run to the front of the TV and begin pushing buttons. Finally the power is off. Bea emerges from the bedroom just in time to see me fifty shades of red.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I know, right? Ordinarily, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing blue and red."
"What's going on?" Bea asks.
"That man is a big pervert who wears women's undergarments."
"I'm not that big. I've been cutting back on carbs, actually," I insist while patting my belly.
Grandma storms out the door in a huff, which is fine by me. Bea giggles.
"Why is that on your TV, you naughty Lovergirl?"
"I think Eric was watching it ... while masturbating."
"Kidding. I was watching it. I know you're not crazy about the ending but the part leading up to it was smokin' hot, if you ask me."
"Listen, you need to promise me you'll use your charm on Grandma. We need her support."
"If you do this for me, Uncle M, I'll do this (grabbing my package) for you."
"We have unfinished business from the elevator, don't we? My turn." I lift and set her on the loveseat. I remove her sweatpants. She's pantiless. How convenient and delicious! "Oh, look: Grandma left her brandy. Can't let that go to waste."
I take the crystal tumbler and drizzle brandy into her bellybutton. I lick gently as the brandy river winds its way toward her spot. The coolness of the alcohol teases, as her clit dances around my tongue. I'm drunk on the sweet combination with Lovergirl's juices. As Bea arches into climax the front door swings open.
"I left in such a hurry I forgot my ... oh, for the love of ... you're disgusting--the both of you."
I slump down and rest my cheek against Bea's abdomen as Grandma grabs her purse, leaves, and slams the door. Bea runs her fingers through my hair as we giggle.
This won't be easy.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
"Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I can see that," she responds with a look of disgust, ignoring my extended hand.
"Oh, yes, sorry about that. I have a condition."
"Come upstairs for a nightcap, Grandma," Bea insists.
"You have Christian Brothers?"
"Fine," Grandma agrees as she enters the elevator and stands in the opposite corner, studying me. "I thought you were done with older men. Where did you find this one?"
"Oh, he's darling. Wait till you get to know him."
"I'm not that much older."
"... if you're counting in dog years."
"So, how about those Padres?" Bea asks, trying to change the subject.
Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open to the 43rd floor.
"After you, my dear," I charm.
"I know better than to walk in front of an armed man. Scoot!"
This old sack is going to be hard to crack.
I sheepishly lead the way. Once in Bea's condo, I head straight to the bar.
"I'm going to freshen up. You two get acquainted," Bea suggests as she abandons me.
"How do you take your brandy, Ma'am?"
"Like my men: neat."
"I'm glad you didn't say 'stiff.'"
"I said, did you have a nice trip?"
"Here. I assume you're visiting from out of town?"
"I own this building."
I pour her brandy along with three fingers of Maker's Mark to sedate me. I hand one glass to her and she continues to scowl.
"What exactly do you do, Mr. Silver?"
"Let's have some fun. Guess."
"Shopping cart collector?"
I so want to drop the C-word.
Is it legal to kick an old woman in the baby hole?
"Nope, but you're close. Give up?"
"I'm a blogger."
"Blogger. A writer who writes things for the web."
"Does one make a good living as a blobber?"
"Blogger. Good enough."
She gets up into my space. She's under five feet tall and yet I'm intimidated.
"For some people, but certainly not good enough for my granddaughter," she insists as she tweaks my nipple. I squeak like a second grade girl on the playground.
Monday, May 14, 2012
After my proposal was accepted (thank goodness), we watched the game while kind fans offered congratulations. I would have preferred tequila to calm my nerves, but was gracious. Bea beamed as she stared at the ring. I beamed as I stared at her.
"Sweetie, I wish I could afford something more substantial."
"Don't be silly. The fact that this was handed down through generations makes it priceless," Bea assured me as she squeezed my thigh and kissed my cheek. "We're going to the Hyatt after the game and I'm going to give you a proper thank you."
"If you insist."
The Padres lost, as usual. Bea was cool about staying until the final out. It drives me crazy when fans abandon their team. Anything can happen in baseball, regardless of the score, until that final out.
Outside the stadium, Bea insisted we take a rickshaw to the Hyatt. Great. I get to smell the Eastern European man-stank of the driver for eight blocks. As we cruise along, Bea keeps grabbing my package, teasing me.
"Quit it. I don't want to be walking into the Hyatt with wood," I whisper.
"Really? Ooh, you are becoming engorged."
"Engorged? I'm certainly at half-mast."
"I love it, Sailor Mormon."
I tip the rickshaw driver. Let's hope he spends it on deodorant. We walk through the lobby to the elevator and I see that familiar look in Bea's face: Something kinky will be going down while we're going up. We step into the elevator (thank God, alone) and head to the 43rd floor. No chance we're making it all the way. Fuck. There had better not be cameras in here.
Bea pulls out the stop button around the twentieth floor, and all hell breaks loose. She slams me up against the wall and undoes my jeans in record time. Her mouth is so warm and wet around me as she looks up occasionally to see how close I am to exploding. So damn close. Think of something non-sexual, Mormon, quick!
I used to be able to think about sports like hockey and baseball to delay my ejaculation, but Bea has ruined those counter-fantasies. All I can think of is recipes. I begin mentally concocting the design of my own natural protein bar.
Bea tugs at my testicles every time she senses I'm close. She's quite skilled. I close my eyes and concentrate.
"You're not coming yet, mister. You can peek over the edge, but tonight we're going over together."
"Two cups of natural peanut butter, ..."
The elevator alarm starts to ring. I panic and push in the button to stop the ringing. Bea laughs and stands up as I yank up my jeans quickly. Naturally, Mormon luck kicks in and the elevator stops at the next floor and the doors open to an elderly woman. My purple torpedo pokes through the zipper of my jeans and points directly toward the poor woman who stands, mouth agape.
"Oh, hey, Grandma. This is my fiance, Mormon Silver."
Sunday, May 13, 2012
I bet your mom is cool too.
I can only partially relate to being a mom. I have no children, but I do have two cats. When they annoy me (Syd, get off the damn keyboard.) and make messes (Symon, must you continue eating until you puke?), I contemplate life without them. There would be fewer messes to clean, less poop to scoop, fewer runny-eyed guests, less money spent on tuna, and freedom to go away for more than two days without a cat sitter.
The same must apply to offspring, although most parents won't admit it. There must be times when mothers think:
- Why must almost everything that comes out of a child be disgusting?
- I can't keep anything nice.
- Sleep? What sleep?
- I liked the kid better before he could talk.
- I could be living a peaceful, childless life in Tuscany.
- What I wouldn't give for one hour of peace and quiet.
- I'm a maid, cook, and taxi driver. The pay sucks.
- After thirteen years of my time the little prick tells me he hates me. I can't wait until he's a parent.
- A dog ... why didn't I get a dog?
- Who is this downtrodden person I see in the mirror?
Then Mom takes a deep breath, counts to five, and goes back to being the world's greatest mom. Amazing!
My mother, in particular, went way overboard in the momming department. After she gave birth to me, she adopted four children. Sure, Angelina would sniff at this, but Mom didn't have the resources to hire an army of nannies. Then, Mom pushed the dirty diaper further and became a foster parent while raising us, the original gangstas. Babies were shuttled through our house faster than subway cars through Manhattan. I think she was being paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 per day per baby--a veritable fortune, if it were 3000 BC.
Now she's in her late seventies, so one would expect her to slow down, maybe play a little bingo. Nope. She works full-time in a daycare center. She does all of this while suffering with Crohn's disease and arthritis for decades.
I can dream up some crazy shit, but this is the honest-to-Zeus truth. I can't imagine anything as special and wonderful as my dear mother.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! You are an inspiration and will always be my hero.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
The latest issue of Time Magazine shows a 26-year-old mother breastfeeding her three-year-old son. Naturally, this picture has caused quite a stir, so allow me to dip my rusty spoon into the media hype soup.
Things I find disturbing about the photo:
- He's not using a napkin.
- He's not properly cupping the breast while extending his pinkies--horrible manners, young man.
- The look on his face definitely says, "nya, nya."
- There's an unoccupied breast.
- I detect a bit of thickness around his middle, suggesting he's overindulging and needs to take a few laps around the neighborhood before his next meal.
- I appreciate that while serving food, she has her hair up, but shouldn't she also be wearing gloves?
- Camouflage cargo pants are so 2009.
- He's not paying proper attention to the clitoris during nipple stimulation ... oh, sorry, my bad ... this only applies to lovers, not offspring. Never mind.
- Her choice of shoes is atrocious. She could help the little suckling reach by wearing pumps.
- Why did his grade school allow him to take his chair home with him, or did mom deliver his lunch to school?
- If she were unattractive.
- If her daughter, with a bob cut, dined.
- If his father watched.
- If the son had a mini-boner.
- If she were holding a romance novel in her free hand.
- If he invited his neighborhood buddies over for dinner.
- If they were in the bathtub.
- If she were a Kardashian.
- If Ryan Seacrest interviewed her while feeding.
- If his T-shirt read, "Got Milk?"
- If some of the milk dripped off his chin, onto the floor, and the cat lapped it up.
- If he wore a cute bib--maybe one with a lobster on it.
- If he were fifty years old.
- If he were black or Latino. Where's the EEOC when you need them?
- If he had some Oreos.
Case in point:
- While giving me a trim, my barber happened (and you have no idea how rare this is) to be an attractive female. I gave her minor direction: short on the sides, blend in the top, and the rest is up to you since you're the expert. The topic of tequila came up in discussion and I mentioned I had tried coconut tequila for the first time the night before. She responded with, "My boyfriend and I did shots of that last night too."
Do I give a fuckity fuck who did shots with her? Nope. That annoying appendage (boyfriend) has no place in our discussion. Hence, I didn't hear what she said; I heard:
- Look, Assface, you're paying me to cut your hair. Don't try to flirt with me because I'm not going to sleep with you. I'll do you the courtesy of hinting that the reason is because my vagina is currently occupied by another man who may or may not be superior to you, depending on what angle is taken. In actuality, I'm not attracted to you and wouldn't mate with you even if I had a fifth of tequila, a deep itch, and a dark room. Now, can I please finish mowing your head lawn so I can collect your three-dollar tip and move on to the next balding creeper.
To defend my honor, I should have replied:
- That's so nice for you that you have a boyfriend. Believe it or not, unoccupied vaginas come a dime two dozen, so yours isn't so precious. If you were single, sure, I'd probably offer to give you a deep dicking, but all I'm concerned with at this moment is that the back of my neck is cleaned up and you're exceptionally careful with how you handle that straight edge. I will generously extend a twenty percent tip and, if you don't appreciate it, you'll not have another shot at my scalp. May the next man you trim be eighty, smell of gouda, and I hope be yanks his carrot under this stupid cape while you rush to complete your job before he completes his.
Please keep your boyfriend to yourself. Good day.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
|On Sale Now -$2.99|
Whenever I see a craze coming or happening, I investigate why and then look for a way to leverage it. That's why I wrote a parody, Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks, and rushed to publish it (twenty days from thought to sale).
Why are these books selling faster than lip gloss and sparkled jeans?
- There are numerous sexually neglected or dissatisfied women around--this includes married ones. Men aren't putting in the effort (foreplay, oral, proper courtship) they used to, nor the time required to level off the orgasm seesaw.
- Women relate to and long for Ana's innocence.
- Big mystery, money, and manhood make for an irresistible man.
- People often buy a thing because people are buying the thing.
- The ratings on the first book are polar. Like the movies Fight Club and Pulp Fiction, people either love it or hate it. People who are indifferent rarely bother to take the time to say so.
- Anyone who struggled to make it through the first book would have no reason to invest $10 in either of the next two. The first book acts like a filter.
- They're unrealistic to the point of being ridiculous.
- Although women believe (and some men say) that men prefer a virginal lover, nothing is further from the truth. Sex with an inexperienced woman is as much fun as golfing with someone who has never swung a golf club. Men want a skilled lover without knowing the specifics around how those skills were acquired. (Just tell him you learned by reading books.)
- Most men can't fathom being physically rough with a woman. It's just not how a proper gentleman is wired (let's hope).
- SPOILER ALERT: At one point, Christian insists on getting it on, although Ana is having a visit from Aunt Flo. So, she allows him to grab the rip cord and remove Aunt Flo's luggage and then proceeds to create rust stains. Gross! Ladies, your man will have sex with you while Aunt Flo is around, but he prefers to not hear about her until after.
- Write and publish it quickly before the hype subsides.
- Make it sexy AND funny, without being long-winded. Nobody is going to masturbate to my book, so I don't need to drivel on for pages with explicit sexual details.
- Insert as many kinky, yet realistic situations as possible.
- Gather feedback from my blog, Facebook, and Twitter followers.
- Have it edited quickly.
- Sell it cheaply.
- Give away as many copies as possible. (Email me at email@example.com and I'll send you a free copy.)
- Plan on writing sequels, if this one sells.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Typical complaints I hear regarding dates arranged by traditional dating sites include:
- He was ten years older than he claimed--maybe twenty.
- She was twenty pounds heavier than she claimed--maybe thirty.
- He was four inches shorter than he claimed.
- She had ass breath.
- He wore leather sandals.
- She downed four drinks before dinner.
- He must have showered in cheap cologne. I smelled him from the parking lot.
- She spent most of the date staring at her iPhone.
- He was expecting to have sex after dinner.
- She had man hands.
This can all be avoided on the group date. When stuck next to a dud, excuse yourself and move down the buffet to the next item, Sugarsnack. Keep in mind there's a certain decorum required in the group date atmosphere. It's not quite as awkward as the one-on-one date, but you don't want to show up unprepared. Let me help.
Date preparation do:
- Cleanse thyself.
- Trim your fucking nails. (Sorry, that's a pinch point ... in fact, "pinch point" is a pinch point.)
- Mute your phone.
- Iron that top--sleeves too.
- Whiten dem teefs.
- Eat garlic within 24 hours.
- Pre-Stalk the attendees.
- Ride a bike to the date, unless the date involves a bike ride, in which case, why are you going on that date?
- Be the first to arrive.
- Wear all white or all black.
- Ask others about their interests.
- Laugh at jokes, even when not funny.
- Pull chairs out for ladies.
- Be subtle when checking out boobs, butts, hand sizes, etc.
- Avoid alcohol, but don't get shickered (yes, that's a word) either.
- Begin every sentence with "I ...".
- Attempt to play footsies.
- Allow rivals to know your target.
- Talk about Jesus, Romney, your roommates, prison, or that "thing" you had removed.
- Tell people it was nice meeting them, without asking if you can mate soon.
- Keep a positive attitude. Consider it a success, even when no condoms are involved.
- A little research by Googling those who grabbed your interest. If you find a lovely picture and have an irresistible urge to release yourself, please close the blinds and never confess it.
- Tip generously.
- Hold the door for ladies.
- Suggest a nightcap in a hot tub.
- Let anyone see you get on the bus or in your car if it is a beater.
- Spoil the fact that you were fortunate to receive a phone number by texting something corny on the way home.
- Expect a marriage proposal.
- Give up. Keep hitting that buffet, Babycakes.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
"You've outdone yourself. Bea's delightful."
"I know, Mom. I'm fortunate. What's this?" I ask as I sit at the table. There's a ring box, which I pick up and examine.
"Open it," Mom directs me.
Inside is my mother's engagement ring.
"Mom, I can't ..."
"Hush. Your father worked hard to afford that ring, and it meant so much to me that he would choose to give it to me. He would have wanted you to have it and make someone feel special again."
I welled up at the table, glad that Bea didn't catch me. I miss my father, and I'm honored.
"OK, thank you." I give her a big hug and my brother slaps my shoulder. "Look, let's keep this a secret for now."
"You do the right thing and plan a nice surprise for her out west. And, don't be afraid to get your knee dirty."
"I know, Mom."
"Have someone take pictures and post them on Facebook, so you can annoy the rest of the family," Neal teases. He knows how much I can't stand those inane status updates.
We chat for a while and Bea finally joins us. She's wearing sweats, which is odd, but I've learned to expect strangeness from her. The four of us feast as my mother keeps refilling plates. What should I do with the ring? Does she even want to marry me or is this just a game? I try to avoid thinking about the ring box in my pocket.
"So, what do you two have planned for this evening?"
"I thought it would be fun if Mormon gave me a little tour of your town."
"Perfect. Take my car," Neal offers, "No racing, and get her home by midnight or you're grounded."
We cruise around town as I point out the places my buddies and I used to hang out. We pass an old drive-in theater that has been closed for decades, a local fast food franchise known for its awesome bratwurst, and arrive at the high school football field.
"Ooh, let's go in."
"Sure, why not?"
Hand-in-hand, we walk the track around the outside of the abandoned football field. It brings back memories. I was never talented enough to play, but always enjoyed supporting my school. Bea leads me to the old wooden bleachers behind the home end zone.
"Sit there. I have a surprise," Bea teases.
She pulls off her top and peels down her sweats to reveal a cheerleader outfit in my high school's colors.
"Tell me you never fantasized about having sex with a cheerleader."
"I'd be lying. Are you going to do a cheer for me?"
"I was hoping for something a little more intimate," she said as she approached and straddled me while unbuttoning my jeans. Oh, dear God, she's not wearing panties, either. Sex in the high school bleachers. This is so wrong!
We make love quietly while peeking around to make sure the coast is clear. Suddenly I feel a sharp prick.
"I think I just got a splinter."
"Ha, ha, ha! Let me see."
"No! God damn it."
"Don't start swearing or you'll get me all worked up and more splinters."
I don't know how much more intimate it can be than limping home to have a lover tweeze a splinter from your ass cheek and apply peroxide and Neosporin to the wound. Sexy, huh?