You Give Love A Bad Name [part III]
Continued from part II.
Ashton has that same innocent, boyish, slightly goofy look about him as his notorious namesake, which is why, when he said that, I didn't take him at all seriously. That, and, I'm not Demi Moore.
"I don't know," I replied, "You'll have to tell me about yourself. You know, sell me on the idea."
"I know I look young, but I'm actually very experienced."
"Oh?"
"I know about older women. I could probably teach you a few things."
On the other hand, Demi and I have a lot in common. She used to be on General Hospital. I used to watch General Hospital.
"What do you do, besides hang out in karaoke bars?"
Not that I'm saying that's a bad thing, you understand.
"I'm a sous chef."
I'm in love.
"Really? How marvelous. Women can't resist a man who can cook. Especially women like me, who can burn anything, even water."
Then I tell him about how I made Chinese dumplings once, and didn't put enough water in the wok, and ended up having to throw out my steamer basket because the dumplings welded to it, and how it was the smell of singeing bamboo that brought me running down from the laundry room even before the smoke detector went off. I don't care if he thinks I'm a klutz; I'm not trying to impress him, I just like to make people laugh.
He laughs. Then he says, "I set my Froot Loops on fire once, but it was intentional. I poured a little Grand Marnier over them, then flambéd it." He's miming the actions as he speaks, moving just like those chefs on TV, and the expression on his face tells me he loves what he does.
A man with passion. Who knows how to cook.
"How did it taste?"
"It gave them an intense orange sweetness."
Down, girl. He still eats Froot Loops.
"I'm not big on sweets," I say, executing a derobement. "I'm more of a cheesecake kind of girl."
"Oh, you should definitely try my cheesecake, then," he says. "It's light, and creamy, yet rich. I bet you've never had cheesecake like mine before."
"You're just saying that because you want me to take you home."
"Well, yes, but it's also true," he ripostes, never missing a beat.
He's clever. He's Ashton Kutcher, but not Kelso. He may even realize we're doing the tennis court scene from Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead.
"Come to my restaurant some time," he continues. "It's just around the corner. Allegro. My cheesecake is to die for."
Was that a feint, or a parry? A feint made without conviction will not produce the desired effect.
"I have to admit, you're making progress on the convincing me to take you home thing. Chocolate cheesecake could possibly close the deal."
"My cheesecake is topped with thin chocolate curls. I carve them myself. They'll melt in your mouth."
He's leaning over me now, virtual sword in hand. Not towering; with my boots he's only three inches taller. But it's so rare that I'm this close to any man that's taller than me, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it, if you don't mind, Gentle Reader.
And then he says, "My cheesecake is positively orgasmic."
Before I can advance-lunge into that one, Tara comes outside and joins us.
"Hi, Sass, do you know my friend Ashton?" she asks.
"I do now," I reply, putting my sword down for the moment. "He's been trying to convince me to eat his cheesecake."
"Ooooh, you'd be a lucky girl," says Tara, to me. "Ashton's cheesecake is —"
"Come on you bitch, let's go! Let's go, bitch. Right here!" A disheveled blonde woman has burst out of the bar and slammed into Tara, nearly hard enough to knock her down. "Whatzza matter, no balls? Come on, show me your balls!" She seems to be addressing the door, or, rather, someone behind it, rather than Tara. But Tara knows her.
"What's wrong?" she says to the woman. "Come here; take it easy. What happened?"
Tara is a tiny, angelic young woman, also blonde, but not in the least disheveled. Tonight she is wearing a black vinyl bustier over a black mini skirt, with blue and black striped tights and black Doc Martens. Her arms are encased in knitted black and white sleeves which she's pulled on like leg warmers. Her fragile appearance is belied by her bravery in attempting to soothe the crazy lady.
"This is why I left the fucking Junction!" the blonde woman screams.
To be continued tomorrow.
Ashton has that same innocent, boyish, slightly goofy look about him as his notorious namesake, which is why, when he said that, I didn't take him at all seriously. That, and, I'm not Demi Moore.
"I don't know," I replied, "You'll have to tell me about yourself. You know, sell me on the idea."
"I know I look young, but I'm actually very experienced."
"Oh?"
"I know about older women. I could probably teach you a few things."
On the other hand, Demi and I have a lot in common. She used to be on General Hospital. I used to watch General Hospital.
"What do you do, besides hang out in karaoke bars?"
Not that I'm saying that's a bad thing, you understand.
"I'm a sous chef."
I'm in love.
"Really? How marvelous. Women can't resist a man who can cook. Especially women like me, who can burn anything, even water."
Then I tell him about how I made Chinese dumplings once, and didn't put enough water in the wok, and ended up having to throw out my steamer basket because the dumplings welded to it, and how it was the smell of singeing bamboo that brought me running down from the laundry room even before the smoke detector went off. I don't care if he thinks I'm a klutz; I'm not trying to impress him, I just like to make people laugh.
He laughs. Then he says, "I set my Froot Loops on fire once, but it was intentional. I poured a little Grand Marnier over them, then flambéd it." He's miming the actions as he speaks, moving just like those chefs on TV, and the expression on his face tells me he loves what he does.
A man with passion. Who knows how to cook.
"How did it taste?"
"It gave them an intense orange sweetness."
Down, girl. He still eats Froot Loops.
"I'm not big on sweets," I say, executing a derobement. "I'm more of a cheesecake kind of girl."
"Oh, you should definitely try my cheesecake, then," he says. "It's light, and creamy, yet rich. I bet you've never had cheesecake like mine before."
"You're just saying that because you want me to take you home."
"Well, yes, but it's also true," he ripostes, never missing a beat.
He's clever. He's Ashton Kutcher, but not Kelso. He may even realize we're doing the tennis court scene from Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead.
"Come to my restaurant some time," he continues. "It's just around the corner. Allegro. My cheesecake is to die for."
Was that a feint, or a parry? A feint made without conviction will not produce the desired effect.
"I have to admit, you're making progress on the convincing me to take you home thing. Chocolate cheesecake could possibly close the deal."
"My cheesecake is topped with thin chocolate curls. I carve them myself. They'll melt in your mouth."
He's leaning over me now, virtual sword in hand. Not towering; with my boots he's only three inches taller. But it's so rare that I'm this close to any man that's taller than me, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it, if you don't mind, Gentle Reader.
And then he says, "My cheesecake is positively orgasmic."
Before I can advance-lunge into that one, Tara comes outside and joins us.
"Hi, Sass, do you know my friend Ashton?" she asks.
"I do now," I reply, putting my sword down for the moment. "He's been trying to convince me to eat his cheesecake."
"Ooooh, you'd be a lucky girl," says Tara, to me. "Ashton's cheesecake is —"
"Come on you bitch, let's go! Let's go, bitch. Right here!" A disheveled blonde woman has burst out of the bar and slammed into Tara, nearly hard enough to knock her down. "Whatzza matter, no balls? Come on, show me your balls!" She seems to be addressing the door, or, rather, someone behind it, rather than Tara. But Tara knows her.
"What's wrong?" she says to the woman. "Come here; take it easy. What happened?"
Tara is a tiny, angelic young woman, also blonde, but not in the least disheveled. Tonight she is wearing a black vinyl bustier over a black mini skirt, with blue and black striped tights and black Doc Martens. Her arms are encased in knitted black and white sleeves which she's pulled on like leg warmers. Her fragile appearance is belied by her bravery in attempting to soothe the crazy lady.
"This is why I left the fucking Junction!" the blonde woman screams.
To be continued tomorrow.
2 Comments:
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
PHOOOW.
Dude. You're killing me. I almost spit out my, I kid you not, cheesecake.
Damn.
Keep it comin'.
Fabulous. Simply.
Post a Comment
<< Home