Friday, 30 July 2010

Elliot Armstrong: Romantacist

It was at the GUM clinic their eyes first met. He was there to have is scrot-rot salved and she was in to have her pube nits fumigated.
Like-minded people have a way of finding each other, and under the fluorescent lights, between the callow sighs of the teen aged girls in for pregnancy tests and over magazines about the woman whose ex ate her daughter's tits they found each other.

Both contaminated both, and both very adventurous.

Back at his place he knew that once she saw his red PVC sofa, to his mind the ultimate status symbol, he would be knee deep in fanny batter because he was a total prick; just like all the men in romance novels and real life. He reclined, took off his shirt and waited. They had discussed food play on the bus over and he had the most erotic of all foods in the oven.

On the menu tonight was copulation with a side order of a plate of chops.

The candles that were obviously there, because this is erotic fiction, flickered as she entered the room; platter of assorted chops in hand. She looked at his hard chest and was reminded of galvanised rubber, hard and unforgiving; to her his abs were like Val Kilmer as Batman spray painted pink and with a bonk on. He confidently took the bone from a chop from the plate, fake fellated it briefly and said "Take your top off honey, lift your skirt and turn around. We gonna make us some gravy."

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