TOMATOES Copyright 2000 by Zipper Bird xgort@yahoo.com
Another day of shopping, or something more? I was in the grocery store -- a sexy place by all standards -- passing by the grapes. A sign shouted "LARGE FIRM CLUSTERS, 99 CENTS A POUND." Tempting, but no tomato. The clusters may have been large, but the grapes themselves were too damn small. As advertised, there they were. A truckload of the beautiful eyetalian testicles, Roma tomatoes, in the middle of the aisle, for the sluttiest price of the season, hung low at 39 cents a pound.
Standing next to me, a tough looking man of about 30, petting and squeezing the slender orbs. He had a strong build, hairy legs, and a first class muscular butt that was straining at the thin fabric of his shorts. I basted one of the larger tomatoes with the olive oil of my mind, and slipped it into his rectum.
"Or, I could do it the old fashion way, cut them first, baste them and fry them in a pan, and just plow his ass with my big old cock" I thought to myself.
Having picked my fill of tomatoes, it was another guy who really caught my attention, in the meat department, where he belonged.
"It really pays that I'm a dead ringer for actor Montgomery Clift," I mused to myself modestly.
His package bulged out suggestively. When he saw me beside him, a horny vegetarian drooling over beef, he grabbed his meat package firmly and jerked his head toward the nearby toilet, a form of gay Tourette's Syndrome, with the "fuck you fuck you fuck you" left silent, much as, in French, the final consonant is left silent except when followed by a vowel.
This vowel followed that consonant right into the supermarket toilet. And was he ever PRONOUNCED. After I entered the room, he locked the door and pulled his pants and underwear down in one quick motion. Out stood his thick seven inches that looked very much like my own, but with a generous foreskin, and in a setting of two large tomatoes, of the size of which I had been fondling only minutes earlier.
He pulled on his huge half hard dick slowly, the head of which was playing an adult version of "PEEK-A-BOO," retracting in and out of his foreskin. I was mesmerized by the motion of it. Swan lake was playing in the background over the muzak system. I felt myself being drawn into the warm lake, drifting in the motion of that fat cockhead going in, out, in, out. My underwear were soaked with precum. I brought my stiff dick out and let the tip touch the entrance to the enchanted grotto of his beautiful foreskin. He was dripping precum heavily too and I felt as though I were drowning in wet sticky warmth.
I awoke startled, sitting in a puddle of my own warm pee. I had wet my bed. The whole shopping/sex spree was all but a dream. Having not wet the bed for thirty years, since I was five, I lay in my pee puddle pondering various medical conditions that would cause sudden senile nocturnal incontinence, (SSNI), a condition I felt compelled to fabricate on the spot and add to my hypochondriac's medical lexicon. There was also the thought that it will be part of a new pattern for me, this bed wetting, and that I might also begin starting fires and torturing small animals, thus forming the triad of elements in the making of a serial killer.
Naw, probably not. But I did make a mental note to check out the killer tomatoes in the store that day. And, also, to not let my vegetarianism keep me out of the meat department, just in case.
END