Saturday, May 3, 2008

Puppy Love

It had been a mistake to eat that last hot dog. Greg knew it the minute that first salty, greasy burp began to bubble up his esophagus. Regret flooded him like the burning acid reflux that was sure to follow. But he knew that he had been powerless in the face of a great adversary; he had always been a sucker for big breasts.
A month ago, at Bob’s Beer Hall on Pleasant Avenue, Monica had looked him up and down with those big caramel doe eyes and had given him the slightest little greedy smile. From that moment on he had been able to think of only one thing: sinking his face between those milky white breasts. She knew it, and he knew it: he was doomed.
Infatuation with a Nathan’s Best hot dog saleswoman was a dangerous game. He had quit his job and started using up his meager savings to travel to the stops along her route. She talked to him, touched him on the arm, even gave him free dog samples, but would always slip away before he could try to kiss her. One thrilling night in a crowded bar on the outskirts of Tucson, the crowd had pressed around her and her tray of mini wieners. In the crush of the happy hour rush, his hand had been pushed into her right breast. It felt just like he’d fantasized. That little taste of paradise had been enough to fuel him to continue the chase through another seven cities.
Now here they were in Hackensack, New Jersey at the annual Bergen County hot dog challenge. Monica had breathlessly explained to him that winning this competition would be a huge win for Nathan’s, and a huge win for her. Anyone who helped her would receive her heartfelt gratitude. She had leaned up against him suggestively and he had agreed to be the Nathan’s competitor, up against the 300-pound monster representing Oscar Meyer. He didn’t know how much lust could make up for the lack of bulk on his scrawny 125 pound body, but he knew that if he didn’t try and find out, he would never get to dive into Monica’s bosom.
He lost pitifully. The Oscar Meyer man had scarfed down fifty hot dogs in ten minutes without breaking a sweat. The last hot dog Greg had consumed was his seventeenth, and it had brought tears to his eyes. Unfortunately, the blurriness in Greg’s eyes had not shielded him from the painful image of the Oscar Meyer Wiener’s meaty hand possessively squeezing Monica’s perfect butt as they walked to his red mustang.

This post is a short short fiction linked to the Sunday Scribblings prompt: Passion. Click through for more interpretations on the same prompt!

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