In honor of Valentine’s Day aka Forever Alone But It’s Fine We’re Not B I T T E R Day, we wanted to dedicate this blog post to our true love. Step 1: Figure out what our true love is. It was a March Madness style tournament. After eliminating Nicolas Cage, Kovu from The Lion King II, and Aragorn with a man bun, we found our true love—food. In the wise words of a certain Jumbo Beat executive editor, “Relationships may be temporary, but carbs are forever.” We know very little about this whole “dating” thing that all the youths are trying these days, but we are perfectly fine with our intimate relationship with food because it offers us more than any one person could. The only thing we love more than food is each other…and ourselves…and this blog. We’re not narcissists, we swear. Our role model Tina Belcher taught us that the best way to appreciate something you love is to write erotic stories about them, so without any further hesitation (this is your last chance to leave), we present to you the first chapter of our most recent short story, “Nice Buns: An Erotic Story of Love, Lust, and Carbs.”
Chapter One: Moist (Gross) Croutons and Other Arousing Things
Picture this: It’s a chilly, October evening. You’ve spent the entire day studying in Tisch, but you were so distracted you barely got any work done. For some reason, you just couldn’t focus on social justice issues when something more potent was nagging at you. It had been a few weeks (lifetimes, for us—”us” being Merilla and Rachel, the omnipotent figures who will be popping in and out of this little piece of erotica. Don’t mind us! Just let yourself be ~immersed~. End of author’s note.) since you’d gotten…satisfied. And you can’t take it anymore. You’ve been deprived for so long, you think you might cry. You are seeking it. Seeking it, all your thoughts are bent on it, and the Ring yearns above else to return to the hand of its Master. (Author’s note: Please excuse Merilla’s unprovoked Lord of the Rings tangent. Back to our regularly scheduled eroticizing.)
Now that you’ve pictured that, imagine yourself finally reaching the door of your dorm room. Let’s say it’s Hillsides because Hillsides is classy and so are you (lol this is obviously fictional). You swipe your card and unlock your front door, grateful to be engulfed in the warmth that your common room offers. You realize no one else is home and remember that it is a Saturday night after all. Most of your housemates would be out partying. You plop onto the couch and shed some layers, ecstatic to have the house to yourself. You hear a creaking sound coming from the kitchen and want to let out a yelp before you see who it is.
“Oh, I…I, uh, didn’t expect to see you here,” you manage to get out.
It stares you down and you gaze at it longingly, trying your best not to drool. It’s just so hot, you think to yourself. I need to stop staring. Otherwise, I’ll do something I might regret. But…will I regret it?
“I’m not really in the mood,” you lie. “It’s been a long day and I should probably just get to bed.”
You avoid eye contact for as long as possible, feeling the heat of its gaze burning into the side of your face. It knows your inner desires and isn’t hesitating to take advantage of them. No one’s home, it whispers. We have the house to ourselves.
“I…I g-guess so,” you whimper. “But I really should go to bed.” You look over at the kitchen. “Well…I guess one bite won’t hurt.”
You walk—more like sprint—over to the kitchen table and take in the beautiful sight: a pizza, but not just any pizza. This pizza was untouched, not tainted by anyone’s hands or mouth. It was warm, steam still rising off of it. The tip of each greasy, cheesy bubble is slightly burned to a brown-reddish color. The crust is as fluffy and thick as a jumbo marshmallow. Garlic was sprinkled on it in such a way that looked so meticulous, yet so spontaneous. The edges of each pepperoni slice scattered across the circular incarnation of heaven upturned slightly, each one a mini-halo (and we don’t mean the Beyoncé song). It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. It took all your self-control not to just stick your face in it and make a sweet (and spicy) meal of it.
“Do you belong to anyone?” You ask, wanting to make sure you kept up a good rapport with your housemates. Well, it began, technically I do. But she left me here right before you walked in. I think she forgot about me. She assumes we’re in an exclusive relationship, but I don’t know if I can stick to just one human.
You know that cheating is wrong, even if it’s the other person being unfaithful, but in that moment, you don’t care. You’re so hungry, you don’t even grab a plate. You just snatch up a warm slice, watching the melted cheese stretch out into thin threads of deliciousness before gently guiding it into your mouth. The impact on your taste buds is so powerful, you find yourself needing to sit down to regain your senses. You relish in the sweet flavors of this glorious slice of all that is good in the world. All time stops and you temporarily black out. You regain consciousness, a fourth slice of pizza draped across your right palm. It’s at this moment that you realize all the lights are turned on and your housemate, the owner of this starchy delight, is standing next to you, an accusatory look on her face.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” she shouts.
You’ve been caught.
Tune in next week for our follow up chapter, Erotic Friend Fiction: The Jon Lovitz Story.