“Barry Bonds,” screamed Grant, enraged. “Barry Bonds is that what you said?”
Lisa shrugged and licked her lips. A soft pretzel sang a love song in front of her, leaving an outline of itself in grease on the cheap paper napkin below. “Grease angel,” she thought.
“You might as well have said Sandy Koufax,” he snorted.
Lisa eyed Grant. They were in the midst of playing a game Grant loved and Lisa loathed: picking fantasy baseball teams throughout history keeping in mind not only statistics but also temperaments. After screwing, Grant often insisted on this game while Lisa often insisted on eating a soft pretzel from the stash she kept in the freezer after a recent trip to the Reading Terminal Market and microwaved, almost pathologically, post coitus. Thus, Barry Bonds, who was sure to bring unwanted scrutiny to a lineup, was a stupid choice. Thus Sandy Koufax, a Jew, would never have harmonized on her fantasy baseball team whose outfielder was bigot Ty Cobb. Thus did the pretzel call to Lisa to eat it.
As far as the lovemaking goes, Grant and Lisa fucked like champions. Lisa had a big old butt, apple bottom jeans and boots with fur. She had the tits of the Venus of Willendorf but the waist of a Giacometti. When she had clothes on she was demure bordering on priggish. But O! underneath the placid cotton surface roiled a great undertow of filthy just incredibly raunchy bawdiness. Filth: spreading her ass cheeks as she’s fucked from behind! Filth: saying just really superlatively dirty things—“Fuck me, Grant, with your fucking ramrod cock right in my dripping pussy!” Filth: As she pulls her butt cheeks open and sits on his face, “Lick my fucking asshole, Grant.” Grant was skinny and bony and hairy. He liked to talk big but when supine was surprisingly conventional. He couldn’t take himself seriously enough for the commitment of dirty talk. Only when he was tipsy would he venture a tentative, “How do you like to be fucked, Lisa?” or the more descriptive, “I’m going to fuck you real good. I’m fucking you real good now. Vroom-vroom. Boom goes the dynamite.”
Lisa’s mind wandered, pussy still full of Grant’s cum, mouth full of Amish pretzel, asshole still moist from his tongue. She thought back to the first time she met Grant. They were both sitting in section G of Letterman the night Warren Zevon appeared back in 2002. She worked in restaurant PR; he was an IT guy at Deloitte & Touche. Expecting to laugh, ready and primed to laugh by the opening comedian, Grant and Lisa applauded wildly when Warren Zevon appeared. “He’s a real cut-up,” Lisa told her friend. Grant thought it was funny she used the word “cut-up.” “A-wooooo!” howled Grant. Lisa thought it was cute. But then Zevon announced he had throat cancer. He was so funny about it and looked at Death, his death, with such an open and wry gaze, the audience was thrown. It was like a funny 9/11 story. Asked if he had any end-of-life lessons to impart, Zevon said simply, “Enjoy every sandwich.” Grant and Lisa laughed and applauded, barely realizing how trenchant the observation was. By the time he had finished his four songs, Lisa—who didn’t even know any Zevon songs—was in tears and Grant—who knew exactly one, guess which!—resolved not to waste another day building Excel spreadsheets and dating lame girls.
When the show ended, Grant tapped Lisa on the shoulder as they walked down the bleacher stairs. “Wanna go grab a sandwich?” he said. Lisa, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run, had said yes. They left their friends and split off to Quiznos. The two ate a crappy sandwich but loved it. Then they went to that weird Bikini Bar near Penn Station. At around 2am that night, exhausted emotionally and physically and at her place, Lisa stripped off Grant’s pants and Grant removed Lisa’s bra. Her tata’s were unleashed to the world. His cock sprung up. She grabbed his balls with her pleasantly porcelain hand and said, “Fuck me, Grant, fuck me, dirty but tender.” He was taken aback but did and halfway through—she on her hands and knees andhe fucking her from behind and watching the street lights play upon the tenement walls in an effort not to cum too quickly—felt enough uninhibited love to venture a joyous “A-wooo!” Timed between the grunts and the slap of of Grant’s hips against her ass, Lisa let out a rhythmic, “Were [grunt] wolves [slap] of [grunt] Lon [slap] don [moan].” They both laughed and came gallons.
Submitted by male construction supervisor for his brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Manhattan