Hot Buns on a Sunday Afternoon
By Erica Rivera
By Erica Rivera
I always preempt my booty calls with porn.
“Sink your teeth into my buns,” read the text I sent to my lover. Attached was a picture of my homemade pecan rolls, dripping with caramel. “I deliver! Just say when!”
Thankfully, he was just as eager for the rolls as I was for another roll in the hay.
“Now!” he responded.
We’d only have an hour, but the way he fucked me, that would be plenty. His style was almost schizophrenic; bunny kisses interspersed with spankings. He’d given me a peek at the wide, wild world of BDSM, and I was hooked. Next on the menu? Anal.
“I’ll be gentle,” he’d promised during our previous negotiations. “I’ll go slow. If you want to stop, we’ll stop. But you won’t want to.”
Today, my back door would be open for business. I sped down Cedar Avenue
“Time’s a wastin’!” I wanted to yell. “Every red light is one less orgasm!”
My clit throbbed against the crystal adornments of my thong. By the time I arrived at the rendezvous point, I was so wet, I thought I’d drown in my juices.
“Cup of coffee?” my lover asked, swaggering casually toward the kitchen. His jeans were tight in all the right places, accentuating his rock star skinny figure.
“No, thank you,” I said. He attempted small talk about an upcoming concert of his, but the words didn’t register. My hunger was so fierce, it made me deaf.
“You don’t want to hear about this do you?” he asked, patting his wife-beater-sheathed chest, patted his wife-beater-sheathed chest, the coils of dark hair already glistening with sweat.
“I just want to get off.”
He stopped short of reaching for a mug of java one drop from overflowing on the countertop.
“I can handle that,” he said.
I couldn’t get naked fast enough. Soon I was straddling him on the couch next to his abandoned cowboy hat—the article of clothing responsible for us first hooking up. Had we had more time, I would’ve ridden him in proper cowgirl attire.
After an onslaught of orgasmic shudders thundered through my body, we moved to the bedroom. He stretched out on his back, arms open wide.
“Put that pretty little ass in my face,” he demanded.
I did as I was told, presenting myself to him on all fours while taking his cock, still coated with a thin sheen of me, into my mouth. He blew on my hole with gentle precision, like a kid with a bubble wand, then nuzzled his face in my crack, the stiff curls of his beard sending a surprise tickle spiraling around my most sensitive spot.
When I heard him spit on his fingers, I knew what was coming…but I had no idea what to expect. He whispered sweet nothing in his scruffy smoker’s voice, coaxing me to let go. The first digit probed politely, then slid inside me, so slippery it was almost imperceptible, like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.
“Flip over,” he said, making a pedestal with pillows for my pelvis. “I want to fill you up until you feel like you’ll burst.”
Silence descended as drops of saliva dripped from his lips and landed like dew on my asshole. (“Deflowering”, indeed!) As the head of his cock burrowed into my hole, an unprecedented pressure shot up my spine. Searing, stinging shocks reverberated through me the further he penetrated, followed by sweet relief when he pulled out. Pain, pain, pleasure. Pain, pain, pleasure. Pumping pumping pumping. With each slow but insistent thrust, my torso arched like an animal being skewered; I gripped his hairy thighs, trying to meter out the agony. I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip to keep from screaming “Stop!” Because I didn’t really want him to. As promised.
Once my body had swallowed him up from tip to shaft, I clenched his cock in tandem with his thrusts, and soon he showered me with warm, pungent jizz…like a bun receiving its drizzle.
“I like you all wet,” he mused when he collapsed beside me. He traced swirls in the reservoir of cum on my stomach with one hand and rode the hills of my bum with the other. “You’re gonna be sore. No way you’ll forget me for a few days.”
I smiled silently as his eyes twinkled blue in a hue even Crayola couldn’t replicate. I wouldn’t forget him anyway, sodomy notwithstanding.
“Let’s have some buns,” he said, perking up out of post-coital cuddle mode. “Since you sent me that picture, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”
I presented him with my masterpieces.
“I’m going to be really indulgent,” he said, rubbing his hands together, then scrounging through the fridge. “And put butter all over these!”
My hot buns, his lube! I thought. This man has an appetite practically on par with mine!
“Sit down,” he said, indicating the dining area. As the buns spun round and round in the microwave, I lowered myself down onto a chair, the suggestion of an exquisite ache building deep within. “Watch me eat.”
There’s nothing I love more than watching a man devour my food. He unrolled the pastry, delicately separating the folds like he would my labia, until he reached the inner most coils, slightly underbaked and the same buttermilk shade as my body. He nibbled the pecan covered parts from the first roll, then unrolled the second and repeated his sweet seduction.
“Hmm hmm hmm…” he moaned. My buns had won him over…in more way than one. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, up the ass appeared to be the preferred path.
When he finished, he wet a napkin at the sink and swirled it around his beard. I wondered if he was cleaning the traces of my cunt or of my buns from his face. I hoped he’d miss a spot. I wanted him to have a sticky reminder of me all day long.
“Food is all about love,” he mused. “As is music.”
If my expertise was in edibles, his was aural. Blood sugar re-stabilized, he picked up his guitar and serenaded me. I watched his fingers contort around and coerce the guitar chords…those same fingers that had only moments ago been “plumbing the depths” of my buns, in every sense of the word.
I was mid-giggle when his girlfriend called. Though their relationship was open, she’d recently insisted on being included in our sex sessions. I didn’t really want a package deal—just his package—and had thus far managed to avoid her.
Now we were busted.
“I’m, um, just eating some rolls,” he stammered into the phone.
His wide-eyed expression told me that she’d correctly translated his statement to “I just butt fucked the erotic food blogger we’ve been following online.”
“I’ll go,” I said when he hung up.
“I think that’s best.”
I hadn’t even merged back onto the highway when she called my cell. As suspected, she was pissed…but not because her boyfriend had fucked me.
She was upset because she’d wanted a taste of my hot buns, too.
Published in the Gotta Have It anthology in March 2011
Hurt So Good
By Erica Rivera
“What are you in for?” Tat Man asked, holding the needle a centimeter from my skin, preparing to scar me beautifully for all eternity.
I turned my head but couldn’t make contact with his clover-colored eyes over my shoulder.
“My birthday,” I said.
“Which one?”
“Twenty-third.”
“Twenty-third.”
“Not exactly a milestone,” he said as his instrument buzzed to life. The sound, not unlike a dentist’s drill, was more unsettling than the sight of the needle.
I tried to distract myself with the Ink Lab’s scenery, but it didn’t calm my nerves. Nine Inch Nails screeched on the stereo. The sign above the doorway read: “Unattended children will be sold as slaves” and the fingerprint-smudged display cases housed metal and plastic adornments so alien I couldn’t even tell which body part they were meant to penetrate.
“Here it goes.”
A sensation akin to a steady bee sting settled into my skin and a trail of heat snailed down my back.
When I winced, Tat Man said, “First I outline, then I’ll fill in. This is the most painful part.”
Far from it! The most painful part was already underway. Getting inked was a piece of cake in comparison to separating from my husband of six years. (Funny how uncoupling increases the urge to injure oneself.) Prior to the tattoo, I’d pierced my belly-button and gotten two new holes in my earlobes. Was I trying to shock something awake or numb out? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t cry during any of the procedures.
Perhaps getting inked was a rite of passage, a bridge from my old life (in which I failed to conform to society’s Leave it to Beaver BS) to my new life, which was (at least in my mind) infinitely more rebellious.
Was this tattoo a cry for identity? Or physical contact? Here was this slightly scary-looking stranger pressing up against my skin, breathing his hot cigarette scented breath on me, touching me, inflicting pain, making me bleed, then wiping me clean. It was incredibly intimate, if not S & M-ish sexual.
“I know why people get tattoos,” I proclaimed to my then-boyfriend on the night I removed the gauze and revealed the black swirling ridges on a pink patch of skin.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, unimpressed by my epiphany.
“To be touched.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious!” I said. “Depending on where you’re getting inked—”
“Inked?”
“That’s what the professionals call it.” I said, glad that I knew something more than my 50-year-old beau. “Depending on what body part you’re getting done, it can be incredibly sexy.”
Dave shot me an antagonistic look. I decided to dig the knife in a little deeper.
“I mean, I was sitting there in a tank-top with one strap down. My boobs could have fallen out or something!”
Dave frowned. He hated when I flaunted my youth and desirability.
I really wanted to get a rise (of the bad kind) out of my man, so I continued:
“Think about the people who get tattoos all over their backs, or between their legs, or around their nipples. That’s a lot of up-close-and-personal, skin-to-skin contact.”
“I’m sure the guy was hitting on you,” Dave said.
“It was intimate,” I said. “But he was very professional. There was no possibility of sex.”
“Maybe on your part,” he scoffed. “Besides, why would people pay to be in pain?”
“If no one ever touches you, or the only way you were touched in the past was painful, I guess it’s enough.”
“Your theory is faulty,” my boyfriend said.
“Why’s that?”
Dave swaggered toward me, pelvis prepared to gyrate, and reached for my hips.
“ ’Cause you get touched all the time.”
Not exactly. My boyfriend’s affection was erratic—two days on, three days off, depending on my parenting schedule. He didn’t seem to understand my insatiable need to for tactile stimulation.
But my tattoo artist did. Which is why I went back a week later for tat number two.
“It’s not your birthday anymore,” Tat Man said when I returned with a new astrological design in hand. “What’s the story?”
“I’m getting divorced,” I confessed.
“Ahh…” he said, wiping down my arm with a cool compress. “I thought so.”
Over the next two years, I was inked five times. After the pair of astrological symbols, my subsequent tats were “rewards” for finishing three marathons: a leaf design for Twin Cities Boston New York
My last venture to the Ink Lab was in 2007. “Loco” (not a pseudonym!) was my tattoo artist; a short, brown-skinned man with black flames up both of his calves. He had fuzzy dreadlocks and the face of a troll—by which I mean leathery and happy, not ugly. We became fast friends because he was a Latino married to a gringa. As it turned out, Loco was so not loco; in addition to a wife, he had a son and an MFA. On paper, he was Jose Normal.
While Loco went to town with his needle, I eavesdropped on a couple describe their desired tats to another artist. The woman wanted a cross engulfed in flames; the man wanted a naked lady. This was his second naked lady. On his forearm. At first, I thought the naked lady was his girlfriend; alas, there was little resemblance. (Is having a cartoon chick inked on your arm a form of cheating? I wondered. How could you fuck a man who, every time he assumed the missionary position, stuck two pairs of pointy nipples in your face? I predicted a lot of doggie style sex in their future...)
Now, as a foodie, I’d compare tattoos to corporeal garnish; they add a little spice to an otherwise bland dish. They make the mundane more exotic, kind of like keeping your ex’s Mexican last name when your skin tone is pastier than cream cheese. (Not that I know anyone who’s done that…)
For now, I’m giving the needle a rest…but never say never. My next tattoo is only one good idea—or one bad breakup—away…
Spanish Pancakes
By Erica Rivera
“I don’t know what to feed you!” my host mother, a plump, jolly woman, exclaims on my first night in Spain
I am painfully out of place in the Northwestern town of Leon
And, horror of all horrors, I am a vegetarian. My host mother knew this when she agreed to a month-long visit, but the reality of a teenager who eats primarily pasta seems more daunting than she imagined.
“What is a meal if it doesn’t include meat?” she asks as she raises her tired eyes toward the heavens. Then her heavily-lined brows shoot up. “You eat fish, no?”
I shake my head no. She releases a full-body sigh.
Of all the places in the world to be a vegetarian, there is no worse than a coastal
town known for its fresh seafood. My host mother flings open cupboard doors and slaps them shut with a series of muted thuds until she unearths a can of tomato sauce. She holds the can triumphantly in the air.
“You like spaghetti, yes?”
“Sure,” I say in an unemotional monotone. I was instructed at my student orientation a few weeks before to be ultra-accommodating, to never refuse a food or activity. So, I slurp my plain spaghetti with a smile on my face, sure that as soon my jet-lag wears off, my host family will whisk me off to the town’s best restaurant for sausage-free paella and fresh-fried tapas. Surely they will want to showcase the local food and accommodate my whims. ¿Sí?
No. The next night we eat at home again. With 24 hours to plan, I’m confident my host mother has an extravagant surprise on the menu. She flutters around in the kitchen like a parakeet with clipped wings. I hear the bubble of water boiling and something sautéing on the stovetop. My host mother emerges from a cloud of steam and sets down a plate before me.
Spaghetti. Again.
Night three: Spaghetti.
Night four: Spaghetti.
You get the idea.
Breakfast varies about as much as dinner — which is to say, not at all. Because I’m an early bird, my host mother leaves a big blue tin of Danish shortbread cookies for me on the table. Each morning, I eat entire stacks of the pretzel-shaped delights, sprinkled with hail-sized granules of sugar. My daily walk to Spanish class is the only time I am unaccompanied, so I stock up on almendrados, an almond and chocolate-covered ice cream bar sold from vendors with bicycle carts. I drink gallons of café con leche and eat my weight in chocolate-covered croissants at the corner panaderías. I wonder how long it will take me to die from malnutrition.
One morning halfway through my stay, a sweet, doughy smell awakens me.
I follow my nose to the dining room where a long curl of steam rises from a stack of pancakes. Deep clay bowls filled to the brim with strawberries, powdered sugar and whipped cream are scattered on the table. There is no maple syrup in sight. I’ve never had pancakes without a generous drizzle of Mrs. Butterworth’s before, but these pancakes — such a welcome change from shortbread — look so scrumptious, that I’d have eaten them dry and day-old stale.
I sit in my usual chair before the feast, ecstatic to stuff myself with something other than spaghetti and cookies. My stomach growls a starvation symphony and urges me on. I lean over my plate and inhale the steam rising from the piping hot surface of the pancakes. I slide my knife slowly, seductively, between each billowy layer. The butter dissolves into a lipid gloss across the surface. The powdered sugar falls from the serving spoon like snowflakes. My mouth fills with saliva and my hands shake in anticipation of the first taste.
The first forkful is heavenly. The pancakes are thin and limp yet heavier than the Bisquick version I am accustomed to. Each wedge dissolves into a slippery, sugary goo on my tongue. Are these saturated in cream or simply undercooked? I wonder. Who cares — they’re delicious. Another forkful follows. Another. Another. I am one-fourth of the way through the stack when my stuffed belly aches with satiety. How many pancakes does my host mother expect me to eat?
“¡Dios mio!” a voice squeals behind me. I turn, my mouth coated with powdered sugar. My host sister, a miniature version of her mother, giggles as she glances from the pancake stack to me. “Those crêpes were meant for all of us!”
Crêpes? I thought crêpes were a French specialty.
“These aren’t pancakes?” I ask.
“No, tonta,” she says, lifting up the layers with my fork. “Can’t you see, silly? There are at least 30 here!”
When my host mother bursts into the room, she eyes the pancake stack, which now looks like Pac-Man. A smile flashes across her face.
“Now I know what to feed you!”
Published in the Let Them Eat Crepes anthology (Lulu, 2010).
Erica Rivera's essay The Glamorous Grandmother is featured in LaChance Publishing's Voices of Breast Cancer anthology!
