Sex and Satisfaction, Too!

Fruit and vegetable markets are just so sexy. I went wild at Monterey Market on Friday, filling my cart with fresh local corn, orange bell peppers, blushing Blenheim apricots, an orange-flesh honeydew melon, a local cantaloupe that had an irresistibly lovely fragrance, plump cherries that are still under $2 a pound and very tasty (I tried one), Kika's Farms plump, red strawberries at ninety-eight cents a pint (the lower the price, the higher the season). Who can resist all of that perfect sun-ripened sweetness of July fruit? Add to that organic peaches and figs in my organic farm box and our house was overflowing with juicy bounty. My mouth was already watering when the mail arrived to deliver the best treat of all: my contributor's copy of Xcite's Sex and Satisfaction 2, edited by Miranda Forbes.

Not only is the male cover boy juicy in himself--and obviously ready to get wet--the stories inside are positively delicious. I'm sandwiched between Carmel Lockyer, who writes a very sexy tale involving "The Pirates," and Jeremy Edwards, whose "Moistened by Mercer" puts a whole new spin on the usually boring task of copying documents at the office. To finish up the anthology, Sommer Marsden serves up a very sweet three-way dessert with her "Girl Crush."

My story "Saint Valentine," celebrates the sensual appeal of a Green Party, Buddhist vegan. I confess I find left-leaning, spiritually-minded men very intriguing. Fortunately they grow wild in my part of the world, including my very own backyard! The story also includes an aphrodisiac dinner, the menu of which I will include for your food porn pleasure. "I expected seitan and sprouts, but Justin serves me a lavish salad of organic greens, porcini risotto, and a subtly earthy Barbera. Dessert is almost decadent: four different bars of fair-trade dark chocolate that Justin suggests we taste in a flight like wine." The "tasting" also involves lots of kissing, so don't think vegans don't have a sensual side.

In the mood for more? Well, I always want my visitors to have their sex and their satisfaction, too.

An excerpt from "Saint Valentine":

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with a vegan.

To be honest, it’s more ‘in lust.’ I met Justin two months ago when he joined our theatre troupe as the lighting director. I flirt with him outrageously, but that is my specialty. On stage I play the vamps, the lusty barmaids, the whorehouse madams in crimson bustiers. All the roles a full-figured temptress plays to perfection. Justin flirts back, but I sense a reserve, as if he means to stay above life’s coarser urges. After rehearsal, when we all go off to the pub to polish off pitchers of beer and potato skins with bacon and sour cream, Justin takes a seat at the end of the table and sips a single glass of red wine.

Though I chug and gobble with the rest of them, I secretly admire my vegan saint. I find his willingness to deny himself carnal gratification for a higher principle unbearably sexy. But, because I really am a bad girl at heart, I also want to defile his purity, pull him down onto my hot, rumpled sheets for a fleshly feast that lasts for nights on end.

Which is probably why I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask him out—good, old-fashioned Catholic-girl guilt.

Fortunately, Justin is a Buddhist.

‘Would you like to come to my place for dinner Thursday night?’ He pops the question as I’m lounging backstage, waiting for my next scene.

‘That’s Valentine’s Day,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yes. Do you have other plans?’

Nothing I couldn’t cancel to get a mouthful of you. That’s what I think, what I say is, ‘I was just planning to hang out at home hoping a prince would ride by with some chocolate and roses.’

‘You’re not going to let candy corporations and florists brainwash you with their profit-making fantasies, are you?’ He smiles, but I sense he’s not really kidding.

‘It just so happens I like chocolate and flowers. I even buy them for myself now and then,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Of course, you probably think I’m a dupe of consumer capitalism with my silly dreams.’

He holds my gaze steadily for what seems like forever. His eyes flicker with a tiny golden flame, warming me, melting me. I realise I haven’t breathed in quite some time.

‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘I hope a wholesome, organic meal with a nice wine will be an acceptable alternative to that propaganda.’

I swallow and nod, strangely at a loss for words. But although I’m acting like a love-sick female, in one tiny corner of my mind, I’m still as clear and calculating as ever. Why not accept his invitation? There’s a risk Justin might spend the night lecturing me on organic farming techniques and corporate manipulation of consumers, but there’s an upside, too. It’s also my golden chance to slither my way inside his monk’s cell--and hopefully his bed. With temptations of the flesh so near, even he might find it impossible to resist my generous charms.

Instead temptation comes to visit me in my bed. That night I dream I’m lying on my back on some kind of stone slab, my thighs spread wide like a virgin sacrifice. Justin stands before me, wearing priestly black and a serene smile. Then his gaze falls to my pussy, swollen and exposed, and suddenly the smile stretches into satyr’s leer. I try to sit up or at least pull my gauzy shift down to cover myself, but I discover I’m bound to the slab, totally at his mercy.

My pussy tingles and throbs and a warm wetness trickles under my thighs. I know I’m shamefully aroused down there, and Justin knows it, too. He’s staring at me with glowing eyes and licking his lips with a moist red tongue. Just then liquid dribbles from the corner of his mouth, not drool but something opalescent and viscous like jism. He bends to taste my offering, grinning and slobbering, and in spite of myself my hips arch up to meet him. I know his terrible transformation from saint to sinner is my fault. Though my body is twitching and trembling in anticipation of that nimble tongue on my secret lips, a scream rises in my chest—Stop! You don’t eat meat!—but no sound comes.

I wake up drenched in sweat, troubled, but undeniably horny. Dipping my hand between my legs to masturbate, I pretend my finger is Justin’s greedy tongue, lapping and licking with devotion. I imagine him kneeling down there between my legs, his head bobbing slightly as he works me over. I hear the click of my wet flesh as he feasts, savor the vision of him pausing to smile up at me to whisper—delicious--his lips and chin shimmering with my juices in the moonlight. When I climax, I make plenty of noise, partly because it’s hot jilling off to the thought of Justin’s mouth on my pussy, partly to reassure myself dreams don’t always come true.

Then again, sometimes they do.