Kirsten Monroe is a dangerous woman. I’m an easily distractible kind of girl and Kirsten’s lovely blog, Aphrodite’s Table, is always serving up the kind of distractions that are mostly likely to…distract me. There’s the lush, provocative images to intrigue the eye. The mesmerizing musings on life and art to feed the spirit. The luscious tidbits and links to her sizzingly sensual prose, such as her latest story in Lucrezia, “Blessed Hellride,” to get some other juices flowing. And last, but not least, there’s the food porn, oh, god, the recipes, the descriptions—through Kirsten’s words and her obvious passion for sensual pleasure of the culinary kind (which is the Siamese twin of eros, imo), I’m lost. But sometimes distractions lead to wonderful things, like the sumptuous blog progressive dinner Kirsten and I co-hosted back in darkest January and February of this year.
Naturally food is a highlight in Kirsten’s offering in our celebration in Suite 69. She’s brought us a charming picnic: a crustless egg salad sandwich (home-baked bread and the best egg salad you’ve ever tasted with fresh dill and fresh mayonnaise), rum & Cokes (the combination works, especially in motels), and a selection of sweet coconut treats, among other things, for dessert. She’s also brought a delectable story in a flavor that’s very nostalgic to me—the English lesson that turns into something much more. And of course, these photos are courtesy of her, each a snapshot of inspiration, a narrative in themselves. Without further ado, I’ll pass the mike to Kirsten. Sit back and enjoy!
When Alison Tyler put out her contest call for Motel stories I immediately thought of Miami. Then I thought about Miami in the 1950s, which led me to imagine an old library, a hot librarian, a Cuban boy, a red Bel Air, Cinderella pumps, yellow chiffon, dark skin on white marble, tacky bedspreads, and English lessons. Of course I thought of food too. Sandwiches in waxed paper bags pulled from a little picnic hamper. Rum & Coke to soothe the nerves & untangle the tongues. Older woman, younger boy. Illicit sex. Teaching moments. Naughty and sweet, tacky and literary. That's how this odd little tale came about.
Manny Cruz is sweating. His hand is India ink on the white marble countertop. A damp pool of it. I look up at him, sternly, through black-framed cat-eyes.
There is a rustle of yellow chiffon against calf as I reach for my stamp. I press wet rubber to paper and mark the due date. My recommendation. I know what he’ll ask next.
“English lessons?” His accent is molasses and honey.
I nod, then whisper, “Tomorrow. Sweet Coconut.”
It’s tacky and so outrageous that it’s discreet -- the Sweet Coconut. All burnt-orange bed spreads and Pine-Sol twang, a couple of haggard old palm trees in front.
We shower. Manny feels me up slowly, eyes closed, trembling. I press the small yellow soap between his cheeks, across his chest, under his balls. He is taught and smooth and hard. I tell him no. Not yet.
I open a hamper, hand him a crustless egg salad sandwich, mix a couple of rum & cokes. The boy can’t learn on an empty stomach.
“Now,” I say, climbing onto the bed in a black babydoll and Cinderella Lucite pumps. “Read.” He cracks the spine. Dirty words leap from the page. A month from now he’ll understand them -- after I untangle his tongue and smooth out his diction.
He reads slowly, his twisted words like tantra music. I moan corrections, touch myself to show him. His heavy, dark cock swells against his belly. I take it, spread my lips, lower myself onto him, and the words come tumbling out.