The Meat Man

The Meat Market

The smells of the meat market wafts toward your nose with the cool Saturday morning breeze.

You head to the closest stand, where you see the sexiest man you have ever laid your eyes on.

It's The Steve Buschemi. With his bulging, bug-like eyes, his lips bright red against his pale, pale skin.

You blush, you don't know what to say. What does someone say to such a slimy, perfect man?

"Would you like to buy any of my... meat?" His nasally voice causes you to blush more intensely.

"Yeah, yeah, I was hoping you could recommend some of your favorite meats." Stay calm, you tell yourself, stay calm in front of this beautiful, perfect man.

He runs his beautiful, bony digits across the display case. His slightly crooked fingers made your toes curl as you imagined them stroking your skin, interlacing around your neck...

You snap back into reality (ohp there goes gravity). He's talking.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, I highly recommend this 'meat' over here." He gestures toward a grayish purple meat in the left corner of the refrigerated display case. It seems to have a vein running down the center of it, its shape slightly bent from the way it is positioned on the ice.

You hear a new, deep voice behind you.

"Excuse me, Mr. Buschemi? I have a delivery for you... a meat delivery." The man sounds weak. You turn and see that it is Michael Clifford from 5SOS! He is clutching his pants, a dark liquid spreading there but no sight of a bulge. Hmm, maybe he's just not packing.

Steve Buschemi grabs the paper bag from Michael. It looks wet, but Steve puts it in the back freezer before you can get a closer look.

Michael hobbles away, muttering, "I don't need it, not as a strong independent woman living on my own in the 1950s."

You turn back to Steve in front of you.

You make sure he has his eyes on you and then you trail your digits down your face, lips, and to your neck. You wrap your fingers around your own neck as you look at Steve Buschemi with slitted eyes.

You make your voice smooth, sexy, seductive. "Oh Steve, what if I wanted the fresh... meat?"

On that note you widen your eyes like an innocent puppy, a smirk playing across your lips.

A smile tugs at Steve Buschemi's chapped red lips. His voice is husky, mysterious.

"Oh sweetheart, all you had to do is ask."

Steve Buschemi turns around and pulls Michael's... meat delivery out of the back freezer.

He hands you the package, which is cold and wet. Your hand has a sticky, crimson substance on it.

As he hands it to you, your hands touch. His beautiful, lanky, knobby fingers graze yours and you feel a spark of electricity as so many potential scenarios of you and Steve Buschemi run through your head.

Him forcing you onto your knees in front of him as you unzip his pants.

Him slipping his digits into your folds to feel your core.

Him licking every inch of your body with his snakelike tongue, with those bug-like eyes staring at you the whole time.

But, as soon as the spark starts and these possibilities flood toward you, he pulls his hand away and the moment is gone.

The only thing left is this fresh member belonging to Michael Clifford.

Steve turns away, but he turns to look at you one more time.

"I think," he says, "you'll find some use for that... meat."