It started as a beautiful morning. The night before had been magical. Dinner al fresco at the seafood dock. Dancing to the music of a live blues band at the beach. A long walk in the moonlight. The short walk home with our arms around each other. Making love by candlelight. It felt like we were newlyweds again, only now we had money and a comfortable bedroom.
I thought it would spill out into the whole weekend, and maybe even beyond. After all, our youngest just left the nest, and my wife had just retired. This was the beginning of our golden years, the big payoff for all those crazy years of running the kid taxi and grinding it out at work to pay the bills. It was our time.
We could focus on each other, since we now owned our lives again. We could rekindle that passion that drew us together thirty years ago, and we could fall in love all over again. Not that we ever fell out of love. I have loved her every day, but for the last twenty eight years, had to share her attention and care with our kids. Now she was all mine. I thought the night before would be a beautiful kick off to those golden years, and even fell asleep dreaming of making love continually for the rest of our lives.
Apparently my wife, Kendra had similar thoughts about rekindling desires. She woke up and as we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, she told me she had a dream.
"Wow, I thought. We're back on the same page. After that wonderful Romantic night and the hot lovemaking when we got home, she dreamed of things to come. "
"I dreamed of sausage."
It wasn't quite what I expected. You see my wife had this curious habit of trying ideas out by speaking in metaphors. She'd gather opinions on touchy or awkward subjects by discussing a hypothetical situation, a "friend's" problem, a story she may or may not have heard or an article she may or may not have read. In this case, I suspected the sausage was a metaphor, and I didn't like where this was going.
"A sausage sandwich."
I wasn't asking her to clarify. It was more of a statement of disbelief. Kendra flushed visibly, and her body language wilted a bit, but I knew from thirty years of living with this beautiful woman that this didn't signal a capitulation. It signaled a moment to gather herself for something outrageous.
"Yes, a girl can get tired of hot dogs all the time and need a change."
Well there it was. I couldn't imagine a clearer picture than that. I was just a hot dog. She wanted a sausage.
"Honey, a hot dog is a sausage."
I should know. I'm a butcher. I know meat.
"Yes it is sweetie, and it is a good reliable sausage. But to have a hot dog every day gets tedious. Some variety is nice."
I do have a temper, and could feel my bile rising. I pride myself on concealing and controlling it however, and used every ounce of skill to do so now. Don't play poker with me.
"So try different relishes, or add some cheese. Try some chili on your dog, or experiment with different mustards, or even different rolls. Be healthy and top it with kale and shaved Brussels sprouts. Don't sell your hot dog short."
I got out of bed and threw on a t-shirt and boxers. She loved to get me into a debate or argument when I was naked. If she started to lose she simply nuzzled her naked body up to mine and grabbed my cock. A couple strokes was all it ever took to put her ahead in the argument. This was not an argument I could afford to lose. She intended to have sex with someone else, and that meant the end of our marriage. I was not going to be conned this time with a hand job. A blow job might do it...NO! This was our time, and I wasn't going to share it with anyone.
"But think about it sweety, there's a big world out there, and lots of kinds of sausage. There's that spicy Italian sausage, and that amazing Linguica. Bratwurst are so fat and juicy when prepared right, and you know how a good kielbasa can be the center of a dining experience. Chorizo is hot and so fulfilling. Don't you think a diet rich in options will make the hot dog feel less tedious?"
She had unwittingly provided me with the names of her accomplices. Marco D'Onofrio, Nico DelVinho, Hanz Krauss, Pawel Mankiewicz, and Julio Pino. They were all from our neighborhood, and all flirted shamelessly with Kendra when we were around each other. Until today I thought it was all good natured fun, and I had flirted with their wives with equal shameless vigor on equally as many occasions. So Kendra wanted to broaden her horizons. There was no decision to make, I would not abide with her cheating, and certainly wasn't about to condone extra marital sex. Well maybe with Marco. That would open his wife Maria for me. This big firm titties, long luscious legs and lips that were made for sucking...
Shit. No, not even then. I loved Kendra. I didn't want anyone else. I wanted more of her. I was hurt, and humbled that she had reason to even explore this.
"I can't think. This is sudden and confusing. I'm going to go cook breakfast, you stay up here. I'll bring food and coffee, and we can talk this through."
I went down to the kitchen, and made up my mind to let food talk for me. I found some brats, and Linguica in the fridge. There were Italian links, and chorizo in the freezer, and some leftover kielbasa too. I thawed the frozen meats in the microwave, and began slicing and chopping. I followed suit with potatoes, onions and peppers, and soon had a couple of omelettes and a skillet simmering. I took it all upstairs with a pot of coffee, and set the tray on my dresser, just away from the bed. I set the skillet and a cup of coffee in front of Kendra, and sat away from her with my omelette.
"There you go. All the sausages you asked for, with some extra yummies thrown in. Will that satisfy your appetite?"
I purposely stayed with her metaphor, referring to th e sausages satisfying her appetite, but meaning both the wexual symbolism and the reality of the breakfast. I could see she was about to break out and talk about her scheme.
"Before you say anything, I want you to look carefully at your breakfast. I didn't bring you a sausage sandwich, because there is no way I want the sausages you mentioned anywhere near one of my buns, however there is a virtual orgy obefore you."
More if her metaphor. I'm sure the reference to an "orgy" of sausage and "my buns" served notice of my own. And we were definitely on the same page as to what I believed she really referred to.
"Let's look closely. See the succulent red sausage? That's the Linguica. Let's call him Niko."
Yeah, lets call him Niko. Let's call it like it is.
"Long and lean, and a deep color that just makes you want to swallow it whole. But it isn't much fun here for Niko. He's been sliced so thin any part of him could be just swallowed whole, no teeth needed. of course each slice has been surgically separated from the next by someone with superior knife skills. He's going to need a lot of company to even be a mouthful."
Did i mention I own a butcher shop? Yeah I have knife skills. I can make a fucking knife stand up and dance the Watusi. Kendra was busy turning white as the blood drained from her face.
"Then there's the Italian sausage. It's Lou's specialty at the shop, but for our purpose here, he can be named Marco. Now Marco is hot and spicy, so I thought I would take advantage of that by slicing down the length of him, and scraping the insides out of his casing. This way he is very loose and far from having any kind of useful structure, but still adds flavor."
Her head bowed now, and her hair hung between us, blocking her eyes from my view.
"Pawel was fun to prepare. I used my new cleaver on him and chopped the hell out of him. Look at all the teeny irregularly shaped pieces. Humpy Dumpty's guys couldn't put him together again. His life is kind of a shambles and even in this mode lodge of a skillet he looks out of place."
Was that a tear I detected falling from behind her hair into the skillet?
"Oh, oh, oh, look at the chorizo! I just took the tenderizing mallet to it and pounded the shit out of it. That was kind of fun too! I named it Julio. It was so fucking fun scraping him off the cutting board and the dish towel I used to keep him from splattering all over."
She was openly sobbing now.
"The coolest is the bratwurst though. I ran the bratwurst through a meat grinder. Three times. With progressively finer cutters. It came out like a bratwurst purée. So cool. Just look at that mash! I'd call him Hans, but it doesn't matter. You couldn't recognize him anyway."
She broke into an open, shoulder shaking, "somebody shot my dawg" bawl. I broke into a smile.
"C'mon Kendra, there's more. The fat lady is just barely warmed up. Ready for her? Do you want to know why I didn't let you jump right into your little orgy in a skillet? Because there is one more bit of meat in this skillet. Can you smell it? It kind of blends in with the mashed Hans, but here is a familiar chunk here and there. See it? There's one right here. Do you recognize it?"
I could see curiosity in her posture, at least when she could control her shakes and sobs.
" It's Gigi's cat food, Kendra. Chicken I think. I didn't read the can, because it didn't matter. I added the cat food because in addition to not wanting exotic sausages anywhere near my buns, or should I say your buns, I don't want any pussy that has a connection to me having anything to enjoy about this orgy. So it's mixed up with the others in a way that no one will ever want her, and none of the sausages she associates with can do anything to satisfy her."
"You shouldn't have to choose, Kendra. Supposedly you chose thirty years ago. You chose a hot dog, which you now think is tedious. So the hot dog is giving you a choice."
I grabbed a plate with a hot dog on it.
"Eat your breakfast skillet. I will slice, beat, pulverize, chop and grind Marco, Niko, Pawel, Julio and Hans until there is nothing left of them."
Yes it was a threat. Yes I dropped the pretense of breakfast sausages and mentioned our neighbors by name.
"However, if you want to choose to keep your pussy out of that frying pan you can have this hot dog instead. You still don't get your sandwich, just the meat. It's not cooked. It isnt warm because I don't feel much warmth for you right now. You see, things have changed. I suspect you may still harbor this taste for our neighbors, so I'm not willing to give you my buns yet either. Heaven help any sausage you've already sampled. If I find one, I swear I will not only put it in this skillet, I will fill that skillet with oil, and fry it until its a shriveled black chunk floating in a scalding pool."
I got up and walked to the door.
"Bon appetit," I called over my shoulder. I sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy the omelette I prepared for myself. It was filled with the Italian sausage. I named it Maria. As I rolled a delicious morsel of Maria under my tongue, Kendra came downstairs. She opened the garbage can and dumped the "orgy" in the trash. She then sat beside me and with the hot dog. She ate it.
