[back to Blush index]

Six Inch Sub

17-apr-2003

I like trade. I grew up a big girl in a small town, which means I find closetted blue–collar men hot because they remind me of, well, the blue–collar men of home. They’re guy-guys, men who look like they don’t want to have anything to do with a limp–wrister, but do.

For example, there was that time I went up the street on my lunch hour for a simple Mr. Submarine sandwich and the broad–shouldered counter guy invited me into the back room. He was working alone.

First, he asked me if I liked guys, then he told me that he did too. We chatted. He was from Iran. He thought me very pretty. He wore a foam mesh hat. The bell on the front door jingled and he sauntered out to serve the customer. While he was in the front of the store, I decided that knowing he was hot for me was enough. I didn’t need to have sex with him. When he returned, I told him I had to go.

Hugging me good–bye, he rubbed his groin back and forth against mine. The gesture wasn’t altogether romantic, but the particular smoothness of his skin, his soft neck, made me hard. He took a step back, lifted his apron, and pulled out his meat. “Kiss it,” he said. Although I’d just had lunch, I chowed down.

He fed me his 6–inch sub for, oh, 4 minutes before shooting his mayo. I was relieved it was over so quickly because my knees were shaking hard enough to make dents in the floor. That, and my lunch break was over. I rinsed my mouth with the last gulp of cola from lunch and headed out the door.

After work, in the privacy of my home, I masturbated three times in a row, replaying the scene in my head. In true manly fashion, Mr. Submarine had given me ten seconds of foreplay, barely touched my body, and zipped up as soon as he was done. He’d straightened his apron, ready for business as usual. I’d felt dismissed. It was the hottest sex I’d ever had.

Whenever I’m alone and hungry for a salami sandwich, I replay that scene in my head, expanding it. (Sometimes I imagine him inviting his co–workers into the back.) It’s gotten me off a hundred times. Now and again, I worry that I’m playing out a self–loathing need for degradation, a desire for what I can’t have: Straight men. The more they mistreat me, the more I know they’re real men. Not sophisticated stuff.

Lately though, I’ve been getting sweetness at home, and it’s delicious. This week, a hot guy–guy passed me on the street and I didn’t want to do him. Too much work, too little reward, I thought. Sure, trade may have the meat, but it doesn’t cut the mustard.