This is the Tony Goldmark thread...
"Bobby?" I could hear the quaver in my voice, somewhere between fear and desire. "Bobby, you coming to bed?"
"Just a minute, porkchop," he grinned over his shoulder, that mischievous gleam sparkling from a single eye buried in his pulsing cheek. I giggled like a schoolgirl. He knew pork wasn't kosher, but it was just him and me and the fading adrenaline from the Harry Potter Magical Broomstick Ride -- they said we couldn't ride on the same cart but somehow that just made it more intimate -- and it was all okay. "Just need to school some of evolution's leavings on the superior future. I can't
believe these idiots think the First Amendment applies to white straight men!" He bent over his laptop, his thick but tender fingers rolling over the keys with the expertise of a master pianist, or of a can of Vienna Sausages spilling over a vintage typewriter.
I thought of those fingers caressing the bald dome of my head, and I sighed, a shiver running up my spine, making the rolls of fat on my backside quake like the hills of Santa Monica during a 5.5.
"Come on, Bobby," I mewled, trying to purr even as I dipped my hand into the congealed bowl of Dinty Moore Beef Stew we'd been licking off each other in the small, gray hours of a California morning. "They can wait. You know they can wait." I tossed my long, flowing locks, a spatter of grease striking the Princess Peach body pillow. I didn't think Bobby would notice, what with all the other stains spattered on it.
But he did, I think. The grunt that vibrated from his body wasn't pleased. Or perhaps it was just gas.
"Bobby?"
"Not now, porkchop."
"Bobby, please -- please, Bobby, just look."
Slowly his head turned, tendons creaking under mountains of lard. The fresh tattoo on his shoulder, identical to the one I sported on my flapping right moob, glistened under a dew of mingled perspiration and Dorito dust (we'd both given up Cheetos since Trump was elected -- one of those things we learned about each other during that wonderful endless night cuddled in the In-and-Out Drive Thru). In the flickering half-light of my basement bedroom, it was indistinguishable from the actual Triforce of Wisdom.
When his eyes met mine, I smiled, blushing, tilting the Mario hat coquettishly over one eye.
He couldn't resist, and heaved himself to his wooden feet, clomping slyly across the room, taking his time crossing the four foot distance from the computer desk to king size inflatable mattress we now shared.
Our eyes locking, he raised one gleaming wooden foot above my proffered manhood, straining to its full four inch turgidity.
In the seconds before his wobbling thigh arched down and his foot descended on me, I heard those magical words, like an incantation, or something from a Weird Al song:
"It's Goomba-stomping time."
Ecstasy.