The Best Sex I Ever Ate

It was the early 80s and I was living in an apartment in a trendy Chicago neighborhood called Rogers Park.

Popular with singles and families alike, Rogers Park, once a Jewish enclave, was then a melting pot of Indian and Asian restaurants, Irish bars, bagel joints, retail stores of all kinds and small, intimate “concert halls” that drew music lovers from all over the city.

Prior to permanently booking up with the guy who was to become my husband, I dated a series of “bad boys.” Dark. Brooding. Leather-jacket wearing dudes who had secrets that they were neither willing nor able to share.

There was one guy in particular, who I was wild about. He didn’t walk, he prowled.

On those nights when we met at our neighborhood watering hole, the mere sight of him coming through the door sent a shot of electricity straight to my groin.

A paramedic, my then paramour also worked security at Chicago’s popular Aragon ballroom.

Every now and then he’d let me accompany him and I’d watch the music while he bounced the assholes out of the club. I have to admit: It gave me a charge watching him drag out rowdy drunks and drugged-up concert-goers by their asses.

Somehow, he did it with finesse, and one night, while I had one eye on him and the other on the stage where Peter Frampton was performing, I got so worked up that I took a tumble down the stairs!

Luckily, I can take a fall.

Aside from his regular gigs, this guy also had his hand in some rather murky pies. I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell although I was aware that he carried a gun.

Whatever.

One night, I was fresh out of the shower and about to light a joint when there was a knock on my door. That damned entry door in our courtyard never did lock! Literally everyone was able to get in.

After asking who it was — I was a smart girl, after all — I opened the door and my heart jumped. There HE was, carrying a paper grocery bag.

He asked me if I’d had my dinner yet. I had not. To my complete surprise, he told me that he was going to cook for me.

I followed him into the kitchen and he began unloading the goods. A good loaf of bread, a couple of bottles of wine, fixings for a salad, and something wrapped in white butcher’s paper.

While he rummaged around searching for the proper pan for his mystery entree, I got the salad going.

I lit a couple of candles and started tearing greens into a bowl, watching as he drizzled a bit of olive oil into a cast-iron pan.

As he waited for the oil to heat up, he slid a hand into my robe. I was naked underneath. As I continued to tear the lettuce, but with less vigor, he stroked me, he stroked my ass cheeks, grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into him. I could feel that he was hard.

I turned around and leaned in for a kiss but he put a finger to my lips.

“No. We eat first,” he said.

Pouting like a spoiled brat, I watched as he slowly unfurled the wrapping on whatever the hell was inside that white paper.

He laid it on the table, laid the paper flat, and waited for my reaction.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what it was. I was still a meat-eater back then but I’d never seen anything like this. Not on a plate, anyway.

It was about eight inches long and plump like a sausage…but not a sausage. Pink like bratwurst…but, not bratwurst.

It wasn’t beef. It wasn’t pork. Nor was it poultry.

I looked at him, eyebrows raised. He was visibly aroused as he picked up that…thing with a tong and carefully placed it in the pan where it started to pop and sizzle.

He asked me to set the table. I did, even while the liquid fire between my legs started to drizzle down my thigh. Like the olive oil in the pan.

He carefully turned the pink blob this way and that so as to ensure a perfectly even sear.

Beginning to feel breathless, I asked him how he knew how I preferred my meat to be cooked.

“I know how you like it,” he replied. “If not me…who?”

I let that one go.

Finally, after several minutes, the blob was done to his liking.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’m going to feed you.”

I did as he asked, grinding my ass into the seat. At that moment, dinner was the last thing on my mind.

He plated his prize and sat down next to me. He tucked a paper towel in the neck of my robe. A “napkin.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get dirty,” he said. “You’re as fresh and clean as a newborn. In fact, I could eat you up.”

“Oh…please,” I thought.

He picked up a knife and fork and carefully cut into the “meat.” Juice spurted out and a droplet hit my lip. I licked it off.

It tasted familiar, yet strange, with a salty tang and a lingering sweetness.

He forked a bite-sized chunk and help it up to my mouth. I parted my lips and he slid the “meat” in, an almost imperceptible moan escaping his own lips as he fed me.

I sucked on the chunk and let some of the juice dribble down my lips and onto the paper towel.

He closed his heavy-lidded eyes. “Bedroom eyes” we used to call them.

“Swallow,” he said.

I did and he picked up another chunk, with his hands this time, and rubbed it all over my mouth.

“Lick it, suck it,” he growled. “Don’t chew or swallow until you do that.”

He started to slowly rock back and forth in his seat, his eyes half-open now as he watched me.

“You have some,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, it’s all for you.”

The “meat” came faster now as he shoveled piece after piece into my mouth. At one point, I thought I was going to choke but quickly rallied as I realized it was I who had the power.

Not him. Me.

He pulled the paper towel from my neck and opened my robe. He watched as I let the juice that had gathered in my mouth drip down onto my breasts.

With slow, circular motions, he rubbed it into my skin. I looked down. My chest glistened in the candlelight.

The plate was nearly empty and I was full. I’d had enough. But he was relentless.

“Finish it,” he said as he held one last piece up to my mouth. His hand was still rubbing my breasts.

Opening my mouth wide, I took it in, sucked the very life out of it, greedily chewed and like a good girl hoping for affirmation from her Daddy…swallowed it down.

He swept the plate off the table. Miraculously, it didn’t break.

As I licked the rest of the juice from my swollen lips, he unzipped his jeans and pulled me to the floor.

It took just seconds…until I screamed.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.