Using some kind of a special cake-cutting method where she carved out a circle in the center of the cake, Doody Lady then sliced neat little squared-off pieces from this perfectly round cake. Damn she was talented! I always wondered how people did that. In awe I watched her cut the entire cake this way. She commanded that space, standing, expert, with her long pony tail swinging ever so slightly above the crack of her ass. Jason staggered over with a drink in his hand to help give out the neat pieces of cake that Doody Lady had placed on small, thin paper plates at the end of the bar counter by the kitchen. After licking his fingers of stray icing, he handed me a piece, an end piece with more frosting on it than cake.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm! You don’t know boy! I love’s me some frosting,” I told him.
“Bon appétit,” he said, and I stubbed out my cigarette and anticipated the cake.
I had given Doody Lady that name anyway and wasn’t I twisted? Don’t we all move our bowels? I grabbed the cake and relished it, suppressing my urge to get up and hump at the air in a feigned fucking of the cake, or to moan and to close my eyes rapturously behind each forkful of thick, white frosting. I took the rest of my cake to sit with Dmitri and George in the booth. I pat the seat for George to sit on the same side with Dmitri and me so that I was between them. We ate our cake without speaking. We closed our eyes and nodded at each other between forkfuls. We moaned between mouthfuls, breathed in deeply and exhaled, then licked our forks clean of frosting.
THANKS FOR READING — NOW APROPOS OF NOTHING I’M SHARING THE SONG I LISTENED TO WHILE POSTING (I SAID I’D BE POSTING MORE VIDEOS) — THIS SONG HAS ONE OF THE BEST LINES EVER — “I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU, I JUST WANT TO KILL YOU!”