Gweedo Goes to Lunch

PROLOGUE

My name is Gweedo. To some uncouth mooks, this name is an insult; a dirty word, drenched in filthy implications. Not to me it isn't. To me, it's a badge of honor. It's my given name, handed down to me from four successive generations of Gweedos. That's five in total in case you were busy huffing glue during math class.

At the start of it all, you had your Gweedo the First, or Gweedo Prime as we refer to him in the family. He was a poor deckhand who worked on the Titanic. When the end was in sight, he made sweet love to a chambermaid as a last hurrah, right before she was ushered out to the lifeboats. She made it home safe and sound with the seed of Gweedo tucked away in her womb. Nine months later, my great grandfather Gweedo the Magnificent was born. That beautiful bastard gained a lot of notoriety in his time for being a skilled magician, but that's not why we call him Gweedo the Magnificent. It's because he was born with a magnificent thirteen inch flaccid penis. This caused him a lot of discomfort wearing normal pants, you see, so he wore a kilt at all times. Everywhere he went his dick would swing in the breeze, like a loose elephant trunk on parade. Even mobsters paid him respect when they passed by.

Now, you might think my great grandfather was wetting his willy left and right with a member like that. And he was. Sort of. The truth is, there was hardly a woman alive who could take a dicking that powerful live to tell the tale. The poor soul was never able to finish to completion before his lovers died. At the age of thirty-three, Gweedo the Magnificent was convicted of thirty-three counts of dickular manslaughter in the third degree--a term the court invented specifically for his case. He pled guilty on all counts, and was sentenced to a public execution by way of hanging. His only request was to be bare from the waist down so the town could see one last time just how well he was hung. People came from all across New Jersey to witness his final glorious moments. As the sun set on Gweedo the Magnificent, his postmortem erection towered over the crowd, casting a shadow that was said to be visible for miles.

"So, Gweedo," I hear you ask, "how did your lineage continue, what with your great grandfather getting knocked off and all?" Allow me to explain. Three days before that magnificent hanging, he was granted permission for one final conjugal visit, supposing there was a woman alive who dared to accept the challenge. It just so happened, there was. A real burly German woman named Helga Mannfister had a deep admiration for the magician, and volunteered her affections. Magically, she survived the intense copulation session, and for once in his life Gweedo the Magnificent sowed his wild oats. According to the prison guards, his face was frozen in ecstasy following their encounter, all the way up until his death three days later.

Helga carried their bastard child to term, giving birth to my grandfather, Gweedo the Suave. He was a cool guy, who partied hard as a young mutt, and accidentally conceived a bastard son of his own with my grandmother before being drafted to join the war in Vietnam. Rumor had it he went on to conceive numerous children with foreign women during his employment. He died of sepsis in the jungle before he could confirm the allegations, but I totally recognize the family foreskin in a lot of the Vietnamese porn I watch.

Anyway, my widowed grandmother was left to raise my bastard father, Gweedo the Tyrant. I bestowed the title upon him when he took my computer away on one occasion, apparently disturbed that I was playing Vietnamese porn. Maybe he was upset since grandma had just died, but I was mourning her in my own way and I don't have to explain myself. Regardless, I'll share my reasoning so you understand I'm not some kinda creep. Imagine this massive, caramel colored cock is the metaphorical embodiment of my grandmother's endless, pulsating love, and the busty Vietnamese woman spread out on the bed is the metaphorical representation of myself, and the penetration performance represents me receiving my grandmother's love, over and over again...perhaps it was a bit much to show at her eulogy. I digress.

So my prudent father managed to get laid at some point in the nineties and thus I was born: Gweedo the Last Bastard. I call myself this because I've elected to live my life as the final iteration of the Gweedo lineage. The evolutionary potential for my family tree clearly reached it's peak at my birth, so why not stop there?

The following story takes place shortly after my vasectomy.

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DRAMA

Nine meals stand between the continuity of civilization, and the rapid descent into anarchy. So said some wise-ass. As the neon-green happy hour sign flickers across the dim-lit patrons in Pauli's Italian Bar and Grill, I can't help but wonder if the saying holds water. How soon in the wake of starvation would these friendly faces turn into ravenous animals, eager to devour one another to satisfy their primal needs? How thin is the veil of brotherly love, how dark and treacherous the pits to which we may succumb in the name of self preservation?

"And what can I get started for you today?"

I turn to face the waitress with the sultry voice who derailed my train of thought. She keeps one hand on her side, one hand leaning on my table in a confident pose. I don't know what moxy is, but when I think of the word now, her image is the first thing that comes to mind. The second image that comes to mind is Mel Brooks offering me a cigar, as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and tells me I got the part. Thank you Mel, I will be the best Willie Wonka you've ever had. Gene Wilder can suck it. I was born for this role, I won't let you down.

I forgot what the waitress was asking.

"It seems your presence has left me speechless," I reply through a coy smile.

"Is that so?" she says in a playful tone, tilting her head to one side and reaching out to adjust my tie in one smooth motion.

Her desire is clear. My appetite is growing. The game is on.

She runs her fingers down the length of my tie, and retracts her hand. "That's a fine suit you have there, you must be a man of high class."

The waitress is right on at least one account. She has an eye for quality, as do I. This suit is perhaps the nicest piece of clothing I own. It's an Armani, dark navy in color, tailor fit to my athletic frame. I make a point to dress well in public, as people tend to treat you based on how you present yourself; though I'm not what you might consider to be a man of great means. It was purchased second hand, but in excellent condition. I try to keep it as such. Her gaze suggests an intent to strip it off me and toss it to the floor. I make a mental note to get it on a hanger before she gets the chance.

Locking my eyes on hers, I reply, "Well, since you obviously have exquisite taste," she giggles at the remark, "what do you recommend here?"

She doesn't hesitate. "The house special."

"The house special it is, and a bottle of zinfandel, thank you."

"Excellent choice, sir." She leaves with a wink, and a sly backwards glance.

I take a moment to absorb her beauty. Auburn hair, curly, shoulder length. Trim figure. Curves in all the right places. A graceful walk that says, "this is my body, and I use it how I like." She's wearing the restaurant uniform: baby blue polo shirt with white stripes, and knee-length skirt to match. Her perfume reminds me of the embalming scent they used on my grandmother's corpse at her wake. I'm aroused, and mildly concerned of the fact. I make a mental note to ask her where she buys it.

This was supposed to be a brainstorming session between me and my colleague, but he got a last minute request to join one of our clients for lunch somewhere else. I'm not assigned to their account, so I'm sitting here alone.

We're in the sales department for a company that makes greeting cards. Our job is to uphold a consumer culture that pressures people to buy expensive pieces of cardstock, with simple phrases they could've come up with on their own, but would seem cheap just saying in a text message. Some people think greeting cards are useless; au contraire. Our products are important because they validate your feelings. You see, it's not about the content of the card, it's about the card itself. The presence of the card says, "I cared enough about whatever this is to pay four ninety-five just to tell you." It's all a matter of psychology. I often wonder if we presented our sexual offers in the form of greeting cards, if they would yield better results. I've tried sharing this idea with the writing department, but they've shown little interest. Perhaps I should present them the idea in a greeting card...

"For the gentleman: a bottle of zinfandel, one Caesar salad, chicken parm Alfredo on fettuccine, and a side of lobster bisque." She placed each item with elegance. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" She offered with a smile, placing her hand gently on the back of my shoulder. There's that seductive embalming ointment again, overpowering the symphony of smells emitting from the table.

At this very moment, there's only one thing I'm hungry for. And it's not the lobster bisque.

To her request, I reply, "There is one thing you could do for me."

"Anything." God her perfume is intoxicating. I wonder if she knits.

"Take fifteen and join me. My business associate couldn't make it and I hate to dine alone." You can almost hear my puppy-dog eyes strumming her exposed heartstrings.

Her face is flushed, her smile is wide and adorable. She turns around and tells the manager she's going on break. This is perfect.

As my new companion finds her place in the seat opposite mine, I pour a small glass of wine. Offering it to her, our hands make a brief, electric connection, as she receives the glass with a smile. I extend the bottle to offer a toast. Her gaze, full of desire, matches my own, as she lifts the glass to clink.

"Salute," we say in unison. Another giggle. I'm in a pick-up artist's wet dream.

Keeping eye contact, I take a drink from the bottle. She takes a drink from her glass. "Might I interest you in the house special?" I ask her, waving my hand over the chicken parm like I'm a used car salesman, and this bad boy just rolled into the lot.

Leaning in close, she replies, "Gentlemen first," taking the fork from my napkin and twirling it around the cream covered pasta. "Open wide, sugar." If I just could shake the image of grandma feeding me mashed peas in a high-chair, this would be very erotic.

I play along. Locking eyes once again, she slides the fork slowly into my open mouth. My lips wipe the metal clean as she pulls it out. Her face is displaying a twisted look of gratification. "How's it taste?" she whispers. My eyes break contact with hers for a moment while I masticate, trying to decipher the strange mixture of flavors I'm picking up. An aura of confusion conquers my senses. Something is off.

Before my disheveled mind is able answer her question, she leans in right up to my ear, straightening the hairs on the back of my neck, and says, "I came in the sauce."

And all at once, time and space stood still.

Forgive me, Father, for I know exactly what I am about to do.

With half-chewed pasta lingering in my oral cavity, we lunge toward each other, embracing an unorthodox open-mouth kiss. She grabs my collar, pulling my body close to her. The piercing sound of glass hitting the floor can be heard, immediately followed by quiet gasps, and the various commentators voicing their opinion on our public display of affection. The taste of her tongue, coated with a creamy blend of Alfredo sauce, mixed with various bodily fluids and an assortment of herbs and spices, is driving me over the edge. I've never been so turned on in all my life, and this is just the first course.

We start getting louder, moaning in higher decibels as the heat intensifies. I stand up, and she gets up on the table, wrapping her legs around my waist. The sound of disgusted patrons is growing in the background, but all my awareness is focused on the waitress who came in my lunch.

She unbuttons her baby blue polo, and I lift it off her curvaceous body. Underneath is the absence of a bra; nothing but a beautifully bare canvas of olive-tone skin. She hands me the plate of chicken parm. I'm about to go Michelangelo on her ass.

As the restaurant loses occupants one-by-one, I drizzle the warm white sauce down her chest, right through the crevasse between her breasts. I watch it run majestically down her navel, over the hem of her skirt, seeping through and making a wet patch over her womanhood. She leans back on her arms and I proceed to lick the sauce up her body. Slowly, sensually, over her belly button, up, through her cleavage, moaning helplessly. She looks me deep in the eyes and runs her fingers through my hair. I can see the manager in the corner of my eye, devouring a meatball sub while staring us down from the bar. I give him a confused look, and he shoots me a thumbs up. Found the cuck.

It's no matter. Right now, right here, this is my happy hour. This run down bar-and-grill is my temple, this unbelievable woman is my god, and I am here to fucking worship.

I take her tongue in my mouth once again, and we share another passionate, saucy kiss. Her thighs are firmly wrapped around mine. My penis is now engorged, and continues to grow in size. Like a moist garlic roll rising in a fiery oven. She can feel it throbbing against her, and tightens her legs even more. Somewhere along the way my suit was ripped off and thrown to the wine-covered floor. It's dry-clean only. Damn.

She unbuttons my shirt, and it goes the way of the suit. Then she takes the lobster bisque and pours it over our half-naked bodies. I wrap my arms around her, and we start making out again, now fully lubricated and smelling like a seafood buffet. I'm so fucking hard for this chick.

After a few moments of uninterrupted kissing and mouth-to-mouth moaning, she breaks the kiss. In one rapid breath, she says, "I want you to stuff me like a three-meat calzone."

The Italian succubus has spoken. Who am I deny her will?

I rip off my belt while she undoes the zipper. She bites her bottom lip through a lustful grin, as my flagstaff rises to full mass in front of her gorgeous, dripping face. I massage the sides of her waist, as she coats my cock in the house special. Yeast infection be damned, I'm diving in.

She wraps her arms around my neck, and I lean her back on the table. My left hand is on her thigh, my right hand is guiding this pepperoni stick into her hot cross bun. She lets out a loud cry as we achieve full penetration. With both of my hands on her thighs now, I start working up to the right rhythm. "Right there," she pants between breaths, as we reach a steady pace. The growing sound of sloshing fluids is muffled only by our growing cries of ecstasy. At the bar, I can see the manager standing in awe, mouth agape, as a meatball falls out of his sub. I know what he'll be thinking about in the shower tonight.

I bring my attention back to my lover. She's gripping my hair, gripping my shoulders, rocking her hips into mine in perfect synchronicity. I can feel her vaginal muscles tightening around my shaft, and the tension is building fast.

"Fuck me, fucking fuck my pussy! Fuck, oh my god yes!"

Best three minutes of my life so far, and I feel the climax approaching.

"I'm gonna cum inside of you like you came in my entre! Is that what you fucking want?"

"Yes! Fuck yes, please!"

"Say it!"

"I want you to cum in me like I came in your pasta, fucking please!"

Her words are slurring into primal expressions of feeling now, and I can't hold it back anymore. Pinning her to the table, I take her with the full length of my throbbing cock, faster and faster, fully lost in this shared orgasmic bliss, until we both climax in perfect harmony.

For a few breathless moments, we let the afterglow wash over us. Enjoying the view. Basking in the glory. Marinating in lobster bisque.

It was filthy. It was outlandish. It was glorious.

As our unlikely encounter came to and end, I pulled up my pants, brushed her auburn hair to the side, leaned in close one last time, and whispered, "...so where do you buy your perfume?"

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EPILOGUE

Hi, Uncle Smutty here.

This was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoyed the journey.

If you came while reading this, let me know in the comments.

Stay tuned for more.