Free Erotica: Ratatouille

"Miles, did you know that zucchinis make the best cocks?" Isabelle asked me on our first date. She twirled her angel hair pasta and looked fondly at the veggie stabbed on the end of her fork.

She had my attention. I tried to guess at a good response. Isabelle had long, wavy red hair and dancer's legs, and there wasn't much I wouldn't consider for her.

"Better than cucumbers?" I asked, rather dumbly but with great gusto, as though we were discussing favorite recipes over the back fence.

She laughed. "Hell, yes. Better than men, sometimes. Better than vibrators always. No batteries, and much more organic."

I was speechless. I had watched Isabelle pass by my office for weeks on the way to the dance studio before I found the nerve to ask her out. I was developing a serious navy-blue leg-warmer fetish by the time I just stepped into the hall and blurted out my name and invited her to dinner.

"Sure, Miles," she had said, quite casually. "But it has to be vegetarian for me, OK?"

She had looked pure and angelic with that pale white skin and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I researched every health food restaurant in town.

"Organic is good," I finally answered her at dinner, feeling like a 16-year old kid on his first date instead of the educated grownup that I was. "Do you peel the zucchini?" I had to know.

"Sometimes, Miles," she answered. "But sometimes rougher is better, you know?"

I thought then that maybe it was possible to fall in love with a girl who said "you know?" all the time and who wore heavy silver rings and bracelets that weighed her down, bracelets that looked like handcuffs on her delicate wrists.

I took her home to her tiny walkup-apartment at the top of an old building not far from Coors Field. "This neighborhood is not safe," I told her.

She just laughed at me. "Life is not safe, darling."

She was right, of course. There's hardly any safety in hating what you do every day for a living. When I chose the world of finance over art so long ago, I didn't know the difference between financial security and being safe.

She invited me in and lit six black candles all around the room "Six," she informed me, "is the sacred number of Aphrodite, the goddess of love." She served me hot tea on an elegant silver tray and then looked straight into my eyes and told me how it was going to be.

"A girl has to have rules, you know," she said. " I never have full sex with a man until the third date." She smiled. "By then I can always tell if they're fuckable or not."

I was 37 years old and a man of the world when she said this, and I swear I couldn't remember ever having sex before in my life, or if I even knew how.

"That sounds fair," I mumbled, smoothing my hair.

She excused herself and went to the bathroom. I confess I sneaked a look in her fridge while she was gone. Never before had a crisper looked so sexy. I counted the zucchinis--there were six. All in a row.

She came back, and her hair was tied up and she pressed one of her strong legs next to mine on the futon. Without a word she picked up a jar of honey from the tea tray, stuck her finger into it, and smeared honey all over her lips. Honey over lipstick, honey around her mouth, honey on her tongue, never taking her eyes off mine.

She stopped. "Kiss me, Miles. Kiss me until all my honey is gone."

Dear god. I started to lick and then I was devouring her, and nothing else existed but Isabelle and her mouth. Long, soulful kisses that went on forever, or maybe it was just one kiss that kept inventing itself over and over and over until I thought her rules were a tease and my hand was high on her thigh and my cock was raving wild. She paused and whispered, "You kiss like a man who is hungry. This is a good thing." And then she kicked me out the door.

I bought her things. I showed up for the second date with flowers and candy and a gift of tiny, delicate crystal ballet slippers that reminded me of her. She laughed and thanked me, but later she told me that the things she wanted in life couldn't be bought.

She was wearing a shiny white leotard, the kind with long sleeves that looked as if it would fall off her shoulders at any minute, the kind you can see nipples through in the right light, and a long, swirling, deep-blue skirt that made me want to lift it and bend her over and fuck her hard and fast. But it was only the second date, and rules are rules.

"Are you a natural redhead?" I asked, admiring her hair.

"You'll never know darling. Don't you know that dancers wax everywhere but their heads?" She laughed and lifted her skirt, slid the leotard aside and twirled and flashed me the loveliest bare pussy I will ever see in my life.

And then she led me out the door to the theater.

We saw Cats. She made me. She kept my hand high on her thigh under her skirt the whole time. I was wrong: Cats is a wonderful show.

Back at her place, she asked if I was hungry. I believe the exact words were "What are you hungry for?"

The possibilities raced through my head. "Oh, something vegetarian," I said casually, still trying to impress.

Her eyes lit up. "I have tons of fresh veggies in my crisper. Let's marinate some of them before we cook."

She took me into the kitchen. We peeled. Two zucchinis, three carrots, a handful of mushrooms, and a large purple onion. "The living room is better for this," she whispered when we were finished with our plate.

Lavender-scented candles, incense, the aroma of fresh zucchini--these smells will stay with me all of my life. She turned on the music, stretched out on the tiny rug on the hardwood floor, took off her leotard, and lifted that blue skirt around her waist and asked me if I wanted to watch or to help. I could barely move; I said I would love to watch her. I touched the pale skin high between her thighs and petted her gently as if she were a kitten; she closed her eyes and threw back her head and showed me possibilities I didn't know existed. She loved that vegetable as if it were a cock, stroking herself with it, rubbing it slowly around her clit, entering her pussy slowly, so slowly, in and out, teasing herself, and finally fucking herself hard--my cock beat to her rhythm; I came in my pants as if I was 15 again. She was lying back on the floor and I kissed her pussy, I kissed that cock, and I kissed her legs from thigh to ankle over and over again.

And then we cooked.

Stir-fry veggies over tomato-basil pasta; peppermint tea; fortune cookies. It was an extraordinary meal--I suspect it was the special sauce. "You will attend a royal banquet and meet your first lover," my fortune cookie said, and I knew I just had.

She changed into a little girl flannel night gown and took me into her bed. We slept. No sex. The trust implicit in this act is overwhelming. I never touched her except to hold her tight.

In the morning we laughed together. "Carrots just don't quite work, you know?" she said. "Too thin. But they have some uses. Eggplants and tomatoes and onions and peppers all have uses sometimes too." She told me that her practice was as old as the Kama Sutra: "How else do you think all those women in the harems got satisfied? Hell, that book even goes into using the root of the sweet potato! Sometimes," she confessed, almost blushing, "I go out with it inside me, when I'm going someplace quiet like the museum. It makes you think about sex all day. Melon balls are my favorite--kind of an organic set of Ben Wa balls."

If this was foreplay, I wasn't sure I was ready for full sex. I went to see her dance on the third date. She was beautiful. We went back to her place, and I lit the candles and the incense. "I'm yours tonight," she whispered. "You've passed. What would you like?"

I was ready. What else could a man want? "I want you to love me, to worship me just like you did that zucchini."

She undressed me while I stood there, and she knelt in front of me and began. It all came back to me in that moment, why sex is the most important damned thing in the world. She kissed my feet and then she worked her way up, taking forever, kissing and licking my balls, and holding them gently in her mouth. Talking to me, saying things, telling me how good I tasted, telling me how much she wanted me inside her, how much she needed to ride me hard. She took my cock deep into her throat all at once, and then there were no rules or they were only my rules and she was mine and I was lying back and holding her small hips and lifting her up onto my cock and driving into her hard and fast. The world stopped; that was all I knew--that she could make the outside world stop and take me back to where I belonged. She came for me over and over, before I stopped and took her long hair in my fist and held her still for a minute.

"Do you want to please me?" I whispered, knowing that she did, knowing that this girl lived for sex and that I could give her what she needed.

"God, yes," she whispered, nodding.

"Turn over."

I owned her. I fucked every part of her body, and she begged for more. I couldn't quite imagine matching her sexual imagination, but I discovered I could more than match her energy and desire. When my cock was finally deep in her ass and my own vision of heaven was high on the horizon, I suddenly knew: I knew this was it and this girl was going to change my life. I didn't tell her this; I thought there would be time later.

I don't believe we slept that night. But I do know that I never let her near the kitchen.

I started drawing again. I sketched her constantly. I still have some of the drawings--"Isabelle in Iceberg" is my favorite one, framed on my wall. Even though she swore the lettuce just didn't do a thing for her.

I stopped eating meat. Isabelle -- her name in my mouth was better than any sirloin in town.

I went dancing with her. I don't dance. Little clubs that nobody my age ever heard of; dark entrances, pounding music, Isabelle twirling and twirling and always coming back to my arms.

She let me go to the beauty parlor with her and watch her get waxed all over. I only went because she told me she loved it, loved the pain, loved the discipline of it all. "Discipline is everything in dance," she told me.

I would ask her to show me her pussy and she would. Any time. She danced for me whenever I wanted. I wouldn't call it stripping, but I guess that's what it was. And the world would stop one more time.

But when I wasn't with her, she would rarely answer her phone, and I just knew she was in bed with a zucchini, and I couldn't stand it. She'd see me once a week -- that was all -- and I knew the girl was getting fucked every day.

I got stupid like men do. I followed her -- saw her at the produce stand, watched her dancing through the studio window, saw her go out with friends and then go home alone. I knew there was no other man. When I asked her, she told me she'd been in love once and that was enough.

She liked me; I knew she did. And then I realized the problem. It still pains me to admit it. She preferred her vegetables over me, just as she told me on that first date. How on earth can a man compete with an edible cock?

I couldn't get past once a week, and summer was running down and I wanted Isabelle in my bed every night. She wasn't a tease. There was no game. God, how she could fuck. Some nights she would lift her skirt and wiggle her ass onto my lap, pressing down hard on my cock before we'd even go out. She'd tell me how much she needed my cock. "It's my real kink," she confessed, "just being penetrated. Everywhere."

I tried to force the issue. I asked her outright what the story was, why we couldn't spend more time together. "Trust all joy," she'd say mysteriously, and she'd wrap her hair around my cock and then take me in her throat until I forgot even what the question was. "You taste wonderful since you stopped eating meat," she'd whisper after she'd swallowed and licked me clean. She was very into taste. "You taste like cinnamon, you taste like a perfect cup of hot chocolate on a cold winter night," and somehow I knew this was true and nobody had ever noticed it before.

Saturday nights were heaven. By Tuesday I'd be going crazy. I moaned, I fretted. I knew I was driving her nuts with my demands but I couldn't stop. I studied myself in the mirror and contemplated my fuckability factor. When you're in competition with a vegetable, every little bit helps.

Other women called me and I simply had no interest. "Isabelle"--her name in my mouth was more appealing than any onion.

What could I do? Move her to the country and give her a farm? Buy out a local produce stand? I couldn't imagine. I studied her apartment. All she owned was furniture and beautiful candles and scarves and one shelf each of music and books. "I used to own a lot more," she told me when I asked, "but then I learned that possessions mean nothing. So now I read a book and then just pass it on to a friend for their pleasure. The same with music, unless it feeds my soul. I pass it on." There were no clues about how to get to her. So I got stupider. I bribed her grocer to tell me every single thing she bought each trip. Six-inch zucchinis, bunches of carrots, scallions...scallions? I had to do something.

One Saturday night, late in August, I tried joining forces with the produce. I used them to fuck her every which way, and it was hot and satisfying, but I was still relegated to Saturday night, and I knew I'd never make it another week without her. I laid out a plan for Tuesday night: I would simply show up, lock the door, and clean out her fridge. I knew if I could spend enough time with her I could somehow make her replace her veggie vice with me. I certainly knew I could measure up: I'd spent a night with a rule and a tape measure back near the beginning of stupid.

I knocked on her door that Tuesday night and there was no answer, it pushed open easily. She was gone. No books, no candles, no music, no Isabelle. I could picture her in front of me twirling and laughing in that blue skirt; but when I reached out to touch her, there was nothing but ordinary space. I believe I stood there for close to forever; the world may have even stopped for me one last time.

Then I checked the fridge. It was empty except for one zucchini with a note wrapped around it: "I've gone on tour, darling" it said. "Pass it on."

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