Mind Caviar

Sean Michael  is often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice." He spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys. Barring any of that? He'll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.


Okay, so there's something about the produce section that's sexy. I mean, beyond the cucumber reference, even. Grapes, with their shine and their slick insides, strawberries that just smell like sex. Peppers and onions for spice. Basil crushed in my hand. The thump of melons that's almost like a tight ass.



I go late at night when the only cashier is a middle-aged, harried broad pulling a second shift and the stockers are out and about -- burly, stocky guys with ball caps and muscle shirts and pretty little tight-assed twinks. Then there's the produce boys -- always a little wet, a little goofy, not macho enough to be stockers, too smart to be bagboys.

I wander -- a cantaloupe here, a stalk of brussel sprouts there. Maybe a musty bag of potatoes. I smell the garlic, the grapefruit, touch the artichokes, weigh them in my hand.

Lots of times I'm the only customer here, wandering, watching, listening to the interplay between co-workers. The flirtations. The jokes. The sound of boxes being torn open, ripped apart, plundered.

It's like being invisible, kind of. They're employees. I'm a customer, outside their games, their play, their secrets.

Tonight I have cherries and mint and two perfect green pears with the barest hint of blush -- I almost bit into one right here in the store, wanting to feel it explode in my lips like a virginal cock.

I didn't though. I was good.

I round a corner and someone on a cart comes sailing down the aisle and slams right into my cart.

"Oh, fuck! Shit! I'm sorry." Bright blue eyes that don't look all that sorry at all just twinkle at me from a tanned face topped by short dark hair.

"I didn't know grocery shopping was an extreme sport." I wink, reach up for a loaf of 9-grain bread, squeezing gently before adding it to my cart.

He chuckles. "I just can't resist these empty aisles."

"Yeah, you can't do that at noon, you'd scare the new moms." Nice and lean, wide shoulders -- not bad. Not bad at all.

"Yeah. God forbid." He mock shudders and leans against his cart, outright watching me.

"Not found anything you wanted yet?" My eyes trail over him, then his empty basket.

"I hadn't, no." He returns the look, head to toe and then my basket. And not the one full of groceries.

"Well, the good thing about shopping at night? You can take your time and look." I preen a little, let him have a long look. Coffee colored, that's me -- straight up in the hair, two creams for my skin, a mocha for eyes. A tall, low fat, with a shot of flavored syrup for spice.

"You can indeed." He licks his lips, dark cherry red once they're wet, like the ones in my cart.

The urge to taste is on me again, stomach growling low as we begin to walk towards the wine aisle, the bottles of red and white and pink and peach shining, promising laughter and the tickle of champagne bubbles.

"I'm Brent, by the way." He holds out a long-fingered hand, one that looks like it could palm a football with ease. Or a nice fat prick.

"Matt." His hand is warm, heated like he's been under a lamp, in an oven. His hand lingers, squeezes a bit like he's testing how fresh I am. I'm tingling, sensations like soda popping and sizzling against my skin.

"You shopping for one, Matt?"

"Yeah. I haven't cooked for two in too long."

"Are you a good cook?" The look in his eyes is telling me his question has little to do with food.

"Gourmet, Brent."

"You have a particular dish you do best?" He moves closer, he's warm against me.

"Anything that's smooth on the tongue. Fresh. Spicy." Oh, I do want a taste, a long, deep drink.

"So, what's in your basket for tonight? Fresh or Spicy?"

"Depends." I choose an Australian shiraz, slide it into the basket.

"On what?"

"On whether you're fresh or spicy."

In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.

He reaches past me, arm against me and picks up a rose. "What if I'm both?"

"Then we'll have to stop at the bakery for something rich, creamy, to satisfy our palates after." Cheesecake, I think, with a strand of raspberry the color of his lips.

"Something rich and creamy -- I can go for that." He licks his lips again, gilding the lily.

We wander back to the bakery, avoiding the stacks of boxes, the piles of blue-boxed neon macaroni and bag after bag of dried beans. It's silent back here, dark, still. Surreal with the piles of day-old cookies and cold baguettes and plastic strawberry gel covered cakes.

Brent looks around casually, checking the place out for bodies and then sidles a little closer. "So are you the kind of chef who likes to sample as he's cooking?"

"I am. I'm a firm believer in taste tests."

"Good thing I brushed before coming out." Brent leans in, eyes on mine, mouth coming closer.

The scent of sugar and chocolate and syrup and yeast is cut by mint and menthol and male. Our lips brush, then cling, joining together, my tongue sliding out for a taste. His mouth opens on a sigh, pushing warm breath into me and letting me in. His ass has a good consistency, strong but not hard, firm but with some give. Delicious. His hands are on my hips, thumbs stroking over my hipbones.

We step back towards the shadows of the bakery with its oversized mixers and wax-paper covered sheets, tongues feasting. The kiss goes deeper and deeper, like a never-ending meal. Unending bounty, manna from heaven. I reach down, cup his cock. Fat and hard, pushing against my hand like something alive and begging.

He purrs into my mouth, hands tightening on my hips. I lick at him, fingers squeezing, testing, exploring. Weighing his balls. He spreads his legs, the fingers wrapped around my hips spreading, sliding and teasing, not quite touching my cock.

We move behind the flat tables, towards the long, clean counter by the huge ovens. It's dark here, yeasty, warm. Brent starts pushing into my hand, hips moving. He's the finest type of appetizer, spicy and hot, offering little hints, promises of a meal. His hands stop teasing, one sliding around the top of my waist band, trying to find a way in, the other cupping my cock like I've got his, holding and rubbing. We're simmering now, both of us knocking together, rubbing, building heat towards a rolling boil.

He moans and the sound is rich and full-bodied, sweet but with a kick. My ass bumps against one of the tables, the flat edge pressing into me, my not-so-flat edge pressing into him. His hand disappears from my cock, in favor of his cock pressing against me. Our clothes protect us from each other's heat, keep us apart.

My mouth finds his throat, learns the flavors of his jaw, his chin. He makes more sounds, moans and groans that vibrate in his throat against my lips. His fingers slide up shirt, hot and wicked against my skin. I get his zipper open, free his cock, fingers wrapping around to tug, squeeze.

"Shit, yeah!" His voice is low, hoarse and he bites his lip, trying not to make any more noise, though I can't think of better sounds to go with the smells, with the kneading of his cock.

Faster, harder, we're moving. He's moving and I'm gasping and rubbing and the table's shaking. His fingers find my nipples, pulling and pinching them, matching the movements of his hips. Hard and stiff, my cock's pressing against my zipper, eager, full, wanting skin on skin.

One of his hands skates down my belly to carefully work open my jeans. "Oh, yeah..."

"Yeah." I spread, cock pressing out, reaching for his touch.

His hand wraps around my dick, nice and solid and tight and he starts to pump me. I pull us together, fingers wrapping together, hands moving furiously, mouths fused together like starving men.

He's done first, cry filling my mouth, spunk filling my hand. The heat and the scent and the salt hits me, all rich and sweet on my palette. He keeps kissing me, keeps pumping our cocks together, the glide made smooth and easy and good now.

There's a moment in fucking where you're dying of thirst, needing something bright and surprising and then it happens, ice cream sliding down the back of your throat good, entire body all about sensation. I can hear him purring, hands sliding on me.

The smells of the bread mingle with the smell of us, need, seed. I lick his skin, draw the oils and salts into me, let them bloom.

"So do I pass the test?"

I chuckle, nod. "You were one hell of an hors d'ouvre. I'd like to sample more of the buffet. If we manage to get out of here without getting arrested, that is."

"You're going to have to let go of my cock for that."

"Damn." I grin, search until I find some paper towels and clean myself off. Now that the blush of hunger is off, the lights seem brighter, the chatter of the stockers close.

He zips himself up, grinning at me. "So we eating at my place or yours?"

"I'm right around the corner. I like to shop daily."

"That's right. So everything's fresh." He slides his hand across the front of my jeans.

"And spicy."

I grab a loaf of bread on the way out of the bakery, then a jar of pesto.

I watch his ass as he walks ahead of me. It's going to be one hell of a meal.  


Copyright  ©  2004 Sean Michael. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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