He was a plain-faced but athletic guy from bowling who acted kind of surprised when I mentioned I ate men for a living. He laughed, I laughed, but he was the one who agreed to be tied up on my bed. We had an interesting conversation about Freud and then I sank my teeth into him. He staunched his leaking neck and squinted at me. “You don’t really care about Freud at all, do you?”
Neck flesh is superb with oregano, rosemary and cilantro. Cook at 350.
“My mother warned me about women like you.”
I nibbled on his toes and he screamed at my low grade attack, but a shade of bemusement sat on his face. I could see he wanted to understand this process. From bowling and beers to being eaten slowly, savored as a tender but weak delicacy.
His cries sounded pushed from a broken flute and it was such a turn on. From a hairy, big-handed man to mush. I rushed to the bedroom and put on my scarlet lingerie, the push up bra costing an arm and a leg. Gentleman through and through, he took off the 49ers hat in lieu of my partial nudity and showed his tongue, “Why does you chewing me up kind of feel so good?”
I pulled my hair back, twisted it and spit on his ankle. “Well, I’m very experienced for one. I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve been eating men for close to two decades.”
Blood loss made his wiry body jerk. Removing his underwear was next and for that I put on Rod Stewart.
“Not that shit,” he yelled.
I held an aluminum bat against his windpipe. “Rod Stewart is not shit. Say it.”
He did say it and I took off his shanks with an electric meat cleaver. Shanks like to be marinated in hoisin sauce with garlic and low btu cayenne pepper spread out on a skillet slippery with oil.
In the last throes he was hungry and I fed him applesauce. He glared at the container and turned to me. “This is generic? You should shop at the health food store if you want the good stuff.”
“I have a reputation there.”
The dance began and I stripped him, waving a heat lamp over his oozing body. He was kind of crooked down there, but I opened my bra and he flooded up, ready for me to claim him.
“Don’t I get a final phone call at least?” he asked in a delirious voice.
I tongued his belly and his arms flared out. He hugged me to him, he demanded to be devoured.
When I started removing his large intestine he went out for a while but right before the end he came back. “Tell them I loved them.”
“Tell who?”
“My family. My team.”
“I don’t think I’ll be back at the alley anytime soon.”
He tried to lick away the brainblood from his lips. “Where will you go? What will you do?”
I sharpened the machete. “I’ll probably stay inside for a while. Maybe I will read the real Freud and not just Freud for Dummies.”
Just about exited from the earth, he smiled.
“Oh you poor thing.” I gave the good side of his neck butterfly kisses. “Don’t worry about me. But get ready. I hear they ask you only one question when you arrive, so try to put on a happy face.”
Greg Gerke lives in Brooklyn. His work has or will appear in Mississippi Review, Gargoyle, Rosebud, Fourteen Hills, and others. There’s Something Wrong With Sven, a book of short fiction has been published by Blaze Vox Books. His website is www.greggerke.com
Neck flesh is superb with oregano, rosemary and cilantro. Cook at 350.
“My mother warned me about women like you.”
I nibbled on his toes and he screamed at my low grade attack, but a shade of bemusement sat on his face. I could see he wanted to understand this process. From bowling and beers to being eaten slowly, savored as a tender but weak delicacy.
His cries sounded pushed from a broken flute and it was such a turn on. From a hairy, big-handed man to mush. I rushed to the bedroom and put on my scarlet lingerie, the push up bra costing an arm and a leg. Gentleman through and through, he took off the 49ers hat in lieu of my partial nudity and showed his tongue, “Why does you chewing me up kind of feel so good?”
I pulled my hair back, twisted it and spit on his ankle. “Well, I’m very experienced for one. I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve been eating men for close to two decades.”
Blood loss made his wiry body jerk. Removing his underwear was next and for that I put on Rod Stewart.
“Not that shit,” he yelled.
I held an aluminum bat against his windpipe. “Rod Stewart is not shit. Say it.”
He did say it and I took off his shanks with an electric meat cleaver. Shanks like to be marinated in hoisin sauce with garlic and low btu cayenne pepper spread out on a skillet slippery with oil.
In the last throes he was hungry and I fed him applesauce. He glared at the container and turned to me. “This is generic? You should shop at the health food store if you want the good stuff.”
“I have a reputation there.”
The dance began and I stripped him, waving a heat lamp over his oozing body. He was kind of crooked down there, but I opened my bra and he flooded up, ready for me to claim him.
“Don’t I get a final phone call at least?” he asked in a delirious voice.
I tongued his belly and his arms flared out. He hugged me to him, he demanded to be devoured.
When I started removing his large intestine he went out for a while but right before the end he came back. “Tell them I loved them.”
“Tell who?”
“My family. My team.”
“I don’t think I’ll be back at the alley anytime soon.”
He tried to lick away the brainblood from his lips. “Where will you go? What will you do?”
I sharpened the machete. “I’ll probably stay inside for a while. Maybe I will read the real Freud and not just Freud for Dummies.”
Just about exited from the earth, he smiled.
“Oh you poor thing.” I gave the good side of his neck butterfly kisses. “Don’t worry about me. But get ready. I hear they ask you only one question when you arrive, so try to put on a happy face.”
Greg Gerke lives in Brooklyn. His work has or will appear in Mississippi Review, Gargoyle, Rosebud, Fourteen Hills, and others. There’s Something Wrong With Sven, a book of short fiction has been published by Blaze Vox Books. His website is www.greggerke.com
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