Junk Food Porn: Cruising for Beefaroni

| June 21, 2013 | 2 Comments
  • 2 Comments

Chef Boyardee CansI popped into my corner store around noon to pick up some hot sauce in order to add a little zing to my falafel wrap, but as I stood in the back aisle trying to decide between the Sriracha and Tabasco and Cholula, the desire for an altogether different kind of heat began to overtake me.

I was being cruised by an older gentleman. And he was staring at my crotch. Granted, he had no choice in the matter because he was sitting on the middle shelf, plastered on the face of a can, directly beneath the spicy condiments.

He was a tiny, sturdy-looking mustachioed fellow with white hair that peeked out from under his toque. The stylish red kerchief he wore around his thick neck intensified the warm, pink flush of his cheeks. My own turned crimson at his gaze, which remained fixed upon my loins. I knelt down in front of him. His devilish smile told me he was looking for a bit of fun. The subtly stiff cock of his eyebrow said, “Well, how about it?” I like that in a man.

I found his offer strangely irresistible. He was offering me something I never before knew I wanted, but now did so more than anything. Even more than a falafel wrap.

I had a half hour to kill, I was game for a little lunchtime action, and I’ve always had a fetish for little Italian men who know how to cook, so I took him up on his offer. But I knew if wanted to taste his Big Beefaroni, I was going to have to pay for it. $1.79 was the price he quoted me off the top of his head. I felt a certain shame wondering what my Sicilian grandmother would think of the sin I was about to commit, and that made the prospect all the more titillating.

I loitered in the back of the store, quietly fondling the can until the coast was clear, then walked up to the checkout as casually as possible and put my money on counter.

“It’s for research,” I told the man at the cash register, though I don’t think he believed me. “You want me to put that in a plain brown bag for you?” he asked.

“Nope. I’m good,” I answered, trying to pretend away my embarrassment. I shoved the can deep into the right pocket of my cargo shorts and left the store. It rubbed hard against my thigh as I walked. An old Russian woman eyed my suspicious bulge with a look that hovered somewhere between amazement and horror as I waited at the crosswalk, but I didn’t care. I had only one thing on my mind and I was nearly exploding with the desire to get home and whip it out of my pants.

Safely inside my apartment, I pulled the can out of my shorts and placed it on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a drink to relax. I find a thick finger of whiskey always helps with social lubrication.

“So…” I said, attempting flirty small talk,” Boyardee. That’s an Italian name, isn’t it?” But he didn’t answer. The man was all business, I thought– as cold and hard as the granite top on which he was perched. I knew I needed to get him hot. And fast, or this nooner was going nowhere. I knocked back my drink and made my move.

I picked him up off the counter with a firm grasp in one hand as I seductively traced the outline of his head with the other. “Got your nose!” I said to him, playfully. Gently, I pulled off his top. He barely resisted, making little wet-sounding noises as I peeled it away from his body. I stuck my index finger in his can. It was cool and moist. I slowly pulled it out and placed the dripping finger to my lips. It was salty. It tasted of him. It also tasted of tomatoes and aluminum.

Once he was opened up, I poured him into a sauce pan and lowered him onto the stove. I ignited the flame under the pan, but it was he who had ignited the one in my nether regions.

“Are you hot yet? ‘Cause I am. Very, very hot,” I moaned with a long, breathy “h” as though I were unfogging a mirror, but in a sexy way. And I was hot. I was standing too close to the stove. I pulled off my hoodie and threw it to the ground. I plunged three fingers into the pan to savor his warming essence, put them under my nose, and sniffed them. The scent of potassium chloride and enzyme-modified cheese product made me shudder. I placed those beef-flecked fingers in my mouth and sucked them dry. He was primed and ready.

“I could just eat you with a spoon,” I whispered. And then I made a sexy growling noise, which emanated from deep inside of my body. I was hungry. Hungry for him.

I tried to inhale him, but he was too much Beefaroni for me to handle. I stuffed as much as I could into my cheeks like a squirrel in heat. It was then that I caught a good look at myself in the reflection from the glass of the framed, vintage Coffee Arabica poster that hangs over my stove– all puffy-faced with a chin covered in goo, like a drooling Brando in his later years. Suddenly, I felt like a whore, which was odd, since I was the one paying for this guy’s services. I discovered at that moment– standing there with a mouthful of limp noodle and hot, tomato-y effluence– that one can indeed put a price on shame. And my particular price was $1.79. I spit what I could into the sink.

I felt he’d somehow tricked me into taking him home. I was hungry and feeling lonely at lunchtime. He promised to fill my needs and my stomach. He also promised me 7 vitamins & minerals and 7 grams of protein per serving. But I was left holding the can, one very unsatisfied customer indeed.

“What are you looking at?” I asked him as I wiped my chin with a clean towel. His stare, which seemed so sexy to me not 15 minutes earlier, now appeared one o mockery and smug self-satisfaction.

“I paid for you, didn’t I?” I cried, “You got want you wanted from me, didn’t you? So why don’t you just… just go!”

But he wouldn’t move an inch. He just kept on looking at me with those squinty eyes. He didn’t even have the decency to turn his back as I dried my tears. Or to leave.

So I threw him out– out the back door and down the garbage chute. As a San Franciscan, it was hard for me not to place him in the recycling bin, which is where he probably belonged, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him ever coming back. Even in another form.

I calmed myself. It was over. I held my chin up and took a few deep breaths before I walked back into the kitchen. I knew I’d have to face the falafel wrap I’d left on the counter, which was forced to witness my afternoon of shame. I prayed it didn’t judge me too harshly for forgetting to buy the hot sauce.

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Category: Bay Area Bites Food + Drink, humor

About the Author ()

I am terribly fond of martinis, Edward Gorey, and sleeping with many pillows. You are more than welcome to follow me on Twitter: @procopster
  • Queenartoeat

    How silly of me! As i read this post I thought of sending you the link only to find that you had written it! Love it when you write dirty! Thanks!

  • Mary Ladd

    See if you’d had the hot sauce, you may have been able to choke down more. This story redefines nooner and leaves me feeling like I have been sauced via association in a dirty but good way.