PORKrotica

There's a lot of talk surrounding the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. Some of my friends are as obsessed with it as 12-year-olds at a Justin Bieber concert. Some other friends, however, were less than impressed.

What do I think of the books? I think I'm not interested in reading them at all, actually. I'm probably the only straight woman on the planet who doesn't want to read them or see the Magic Mike movie. I realize that makes me sound like a sexually repressed 1950's housewife, but it's quite the contrary. I like sex just as much as the next girl, and in fact am one of the most open-minded people I know on the subject. No, really. If you know me in person and we haven't discussed the joys of multiple orgasms, it's probably because I'm not sure how you feel on the subject and I don't want to make you uncomfortable.

Or you're a nun.

Or my mom.

At any rate, the whole 50 Shades thing just doesn't tickle my fancy. But today I saw this picture on Facebook:

Finally, some smut I can get behind!

Who doesn't get turned on by bacon? Even as a vegetarian I loved the stuff. In fact, it was my gateway meat back into the life of an omnivore. It has the taste of angel but just enough nitrates to make it dangerous.

So I decided I should write some porkrotica in honour of this sexy picture. And hey, maybe it'll get popular and we can turn it into a porknography movie.

50 PLATES OF BACON

He stood in the hallway - a coy smile on his face - and reached for my hand. I let him guide me into the kitchen. Candles stood alight on the granite counter, their flames reflected in the pot rack above. Lagostina, I noticed. And not the cheap kind with the plastic handles, either. This guy meant business.

"What are you cook--" I began to ask, but he put a finger to my lips and stopped me cold.

 "Don't speak," he insisted, and reached into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a silk scarf. He grabbed my hair and gently forced my head back, tying the scarf so that all I could see was blackness. "On your knees."

Cold air blasted me from the fridge door.

The last time I was on my knees, I was scrubbing dried pee from beside the toilet bowl. Sure, no one was bossing me around at the time, but at least this situation smelled a lot better. In fact, it smelled incredible.

His curly moustache tickled my cheek as he leaned down to whisper in my ear. "I've been getting my meat ready for you all day, lover. Now it's time for things to get hot."

Excitement rushed through me at the sound of something unzipping in front of my face. Freezer bag!

The sound of dish sliding against dish behind me, then the intense pounding of microwave keys. Not a word was spoken for what felt like at least thirty seconds, Then, a beep cut through the silence like a knife.

"I want you to taste my meat," he said. "But first I want you to beg for it."

I wanted his meat. I wanted it so badly. But I kept quiet.

The scent was getting stronger, smokier, closer. I breathed it in lustfully.  Sweat began to trickle down my face. Oh God, I thought. I know that smell. That amazing, breakfast-like smell.

I soon realized that wasn't sweat trickling down my chin, but drool.

I could hold my porkly passion no longer. "Feed me your meat." I said quietly.

He got behind me, put a foot on my back, and held the plate just under my nose.  His chef hat fell in my lap."Louder! Tell me how much you want it!"

"Feed me your long, hard strip!" I yelled.

He pulled off the blindfold. A pound of perfectly processed pork product sat steaming on a plate. "Take it all! Cram it in you mouth! I want to watch you eat it."

And so I did. He looked at me and cocked his head. "Good girl. Only 49 more plates to go."

I never knew such desire until that night.