dawn is taking a poll on what fantasy she should write down for this blog, and more than a few women writers have asked me for an example, but fortunately a decent submission was sent in this morning by ms. svensa swenson of eu claire, wisconsin.
pizza boy came home from a hard day of delivering pies.
his teen exgirlfriend was busy doing teen things,
his busty other exgirlfriend was drinking with her coworkers on the wesssssside,
his cuban lust affair was through with him, the nba cheerleaders were in maui recovering from the grueling season, so he figured he’d immediately change into his pajamas, turn off the phone, sip rum and watch hbo.
david spade’s “joe dirt” was scheduled to be broadcast.
as the microwave bell tinged that his frozen burrito was warmed, he heard a familiar knock at the back door.
a curvey tanned girl in her early twenties waved at the backdoor cam.
big smiles.
he opened the door, she came in, he didnt hug her she didnt hug him but in minutes they were on the couch
going at it.
just like they should.
pizza boy might not have been blessed with good looks, rich uncles or funky dance moves.
but he had been born with an uncanny memory of city streets and addresses
and an equally creepy way around a young woman’s body.
creepy good.
she didnt seem to mind that he was in his red flannel pajamas, that the ball game was on the tv, that porn was streaming on the computer, or that he didnt offer her any of the steaming hot chicken nuggets.
she didnt even notice the thirteen tiny sauce bowls on the coffee table with variety of dipping choices.
there was hot mustard, bleu cheese, ranch, salsa, hot sauce, bbq sauce, mc donalds sweet and sour, hunt’s catsup, soy sauce, zancau garlic paste, honey, lemon pepper, hummus, and what nugget isnt tastier than with a dab of ecstacy.
which our writhing guest was obviously in the throws of.
ting.
hot fudge was ready.
now this was a girl who hated body hair in the same way pizza boys hated rodents.
she had beautifully long hair hair, perfectly plucked eyebrow hair and three curls that our hero was up to his eyebrows in.
thanks to the internet, pizza boy had every great song ever recorded ever
stored in his sixty gigabyte hardrive which was connected to his only real extravagance, a two hundred watt mcintosh thx dolby home theatre whose speaker wires crept through all the walls of the small apartment including the far south wall where a pair of descretely placed infinity speakers hung beside the futon mattress of his hollywood crash pad.
she backed away and started doing things to him that will never be shown on national television
and he wondered why
he looked outside, it was the first night of summer, and he thought about all the things that he’d seen on national tv like death, lies, wars, tragedies, and wondered if he would ever see a young man and a young woman seriously get it on to a point where clothes were ripped off and clothes were pushed aside, and sounds were made, unmistakeable sounds, and both people were beautiful and said beautiful things to each other
and then
banged
hard and fast.
pizza boy knew he was the luckiest man in the world. he’d just gone to an astrologer who said that there was a good luck convention going on in his house. the astrologer said go to vegas, play every game there, play the lottery, smile at every hot babe you see and watch them All smile back.
and again the microwave tinged.
the girl returned with a second dish of hot fudge.
being that pizza boy was handcuffed
and gagged, he had a pretty good idea about what was going to happen next.
but as always, he was wrong
for, hark, what’s this?
is that a knock at his front door?
only the mail man knocks at that door and it was now nearly midnight.
the girl gave the steaming fudge another stir and hopped up and skipped to the door, a blur of white cotton panties, little tennis socks with the fuzzy ball above the heel,
ponytail.
she came back holding the hand of her miniskirted
highheeled best friend
who’d always wanted to meet the world greatest
pizza boy,
who couldnt take his eyes
off of her glittered
black leathered
choker.
until her twin sister slammed the door, stormed through the apartment
clomping over the hardwood
with her cowgirl boots,
crashed past the two x’ing girls,
and ripped off his whippedcream covered
strawberry stained leather gag.
43. ultrablognetic
ah, thanks for asking.
america doesn’t need soccer. we never have. it’s been nothing more than something kids do during recess and immigrants play on sundays. kick the ball into the big net, euros. 
i find it endearing, in a way, most of the time.
so i decided to get my trashy summer novel reading started in grand fashion by breaking open my signed copy of ken layne’s novel of intrigue, muder, technology, 
.. mmm not really. i was baptisted catholic.