My Sweet Savage Salami

John closed the door and leaned back against it, enjoying for a moment the sight of the woman he loved preparing for something he adored as much as her. He hummed a few bars of Afternoon Delight until she glanced at him, and then said, "Marcia, it's time."

"Really?" His words made butterflies flutter in the gentle curve of Marcia's tummy, and she didn't know where to look. He was so big, so intense, so determined to conquer. All she could do was stand in the middle of the room, her hands neatly folded in front of her. "I've been anticipating this ever since we met," she told John softly. "Lately it's all I can think about. The thing is, thinking and pondering and fantasizing aren't the same as actually, you know, doing it."

"Don't worry." John put his hand over the rigid length in his pocket, massaging it a little as he straightened and walked toward her. "You're going to love it."

"Darling, I . . . " Marcia's voice disappeared as she stared at the betraying bulge in the front of his trousers. It had to be two feet long and at least eight inches wide. She sat down quickly. Had he been taking some sort of enhancer? "I think maybe . . . maybe it's too soon. Maybe we should wait until we're married."

"I know you're a little nervous about trying new things, Cupcake." John gave her a masterful look as he moved in, and the bulge bobbed under his pants. "But you know that there's absolutely nothing to be afraid of."

Sure, Marcia thought. He couldn't see how big that thing was. Did he want to make love or drill for oil? She took off her glasses, which thankfully made things a lot fuzzier. "But they say it's so much better on the wedding night--"

"I'm not waiting another minute." John loomed over her. "I'm starving for it." He studied her face and grinned. "So are you."

"No, I'm not. I'm perfectly fine. I'm . . . " Marcia swallowed, paled, quivered, trembled and then whispered through a throat so tight that her breathy words squeaked, "It's too much for me, John. Can't you see that?"

"So what if it's too much?" His smile turned wicked as he drew his hand out of his pocket. "We can save some for later." He ignored her shocked cry as he showed her the long, hard, reddened length of meat in his hand and let it drop on the kitchen table with a small thud. "What do you think, darling? Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Oh, my God! It's so huge!" Marcia scrambled to her feet and pressed her hands against her breast bone as her eyes bulged. "I can't handle all that!"

"Don't worry, baby, we'll take it slow and easy." John looked around. "Where's the bread and the mustard?" When Marcia only shook her head helplessly, he left the salami on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. "Do you want mayo on your sandwich?"

"John." Marcia's cheeks turned bright scarlet as she groped for her glasses, put them on and inspected the object on the table. "That's a salami."

"Of course it is. I know you said you'd never tried it before, but it's really good on rye bread. I told you one day I'd make you my famous salami sandwiches for lunch." John glanced over his shoulder. "What did you think, I was happy to see you?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." She tried to look stern. "When you whipped it out of your pants that way I thought it was something else."

John's brow furrowed. "You thought it was my p--?"

"Your manly part, yes," Marcia said quickly. When he began to chuckle, she stiffened. "I can't help it. You know how near-sighted I am without my glasses."

"Sweetheart, the kitchen table is the last place I'd plop my p--"

"Your aroused male flesh, I understand." Marcia began to pace. "I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions and mistook that luncheon meat for your you-know-what. I promise, I'll keep my glasses on and it will never happen again."

"I don't get it." John scratched his head. "This is chapter five. We had completely gratuitous wild monkey sex in in chapter one, and at the time you seemed to really enjoy riding my p--"

"Please don't," Marcia begged, "say that horrible word, or describe in clinical terms those terrible things we did."

"Penis is a horrible word?" John laughed. "Honey, it's a body part. Granted, one you don't personally have, but half of all the other people in the world carry one around with them. Like most men, I use mine frequently. I have to, or I couldn't urinate, masturbate or impregnate. And how else would I write my name in the snow?"

"Oh, John." Marcia's eyes filled with tears. "How can you be so crude?"

"Baby, I'd love for it to be called something else -- ramrod would be nice -- but when it comes right down to it, it's just a penis. And while you may hate it, it doesn't feel that way about you." He reached for her. "To be honest, it really wants to f--"

"Lalalalala," Marcia sang loudly, her hands pressed over her ears. "I can't hear you."

John forced her hands down. "What's wrong with saying I'd like to f--"

"Because nice people in love don't do that," Marcia said loudly. "We do other things, like getting swept off on a wave of passion, or moving together to unseen music until we become one, or hurtling up into the heavens until we find the ultimate pleasure together."

John stared at her. "Hurtling?"

"Hurtling." She thought for a moment. "There should be some fireworks, too. The inward, incandescent type. And white-hot wires running and sparking here and there. But no body parts words. And absolutely no Anglo-Saxon words for, you know, doing it."

"So I'm a roman candle? Or a pogo stick? What the . . . " John turned toward the PBW blog readers. "Kids, go visit Alison Kent's blog for a minute." He waited until all the minors had left the blog, and then regarded Marcia. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"John!"

"Or ridiculous fucking," he added. "Take your pick."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I'm a nice girl. And nice girls only use the very vaguest terms to describe body parts and intimate activities. Didn't you read the romance heroine handbook? It's how our authors perpetuate society's delusions of inviolate feminine purity. By pretending we don't know what to call our body parts or what we do with them." With great dignity Marcia went to the kitchen table. Gingerly she picked up the salami and handed it to him. "I'd appreciate it if you and your manhood-shaped luncheon meat would leave now."

"I'm still hungry, and this is my house. If all it takes to get my wires crossed and my fuse lit are some nonspecific words, why then." John tossed the salami aside and grabbed Marcia, lifting her up onto the table. "Gimme some of that taco, baby."