MATT AND CAROLYN’S SAVAGE DESIRE
Matt’s and my sweet savage, tempestuous, wild, savage love began in the highly charged, emotionally fraught, totally dreamy environs of the college campus cafeteria dish room. He was “Head Slopper”. I was “Silverware”. It was lust at first sight. For me, anyway. The smell of grease, the roar of the dishwasher, the hot, hot, sweltering, balmy, heated, steamy…where was I? Right. The steam in the dish room was not all coming from the dishwasher.
Mm, mm, no.
Manly. Yes. That’s it. Though he was only 18, he was MANLY. He sported a deliciously HUGE afro that was impossible to run my fingers through. Trust me when I tell you it looked so much better on him, than on Bozo. And, to compliment his hippy-dippy-doo, I remember the scruffy beard, the baggy 501’s, the T-shirt that clung to his rippling muscles, the stylish converse tennis-shoes, the rakish grin…Ahhhh me.
The tiny muscles in his jaw flexed, as he scraped the remnants of mashed potato off a co-ed’s plate, driving me crazy with desire. (For the mashed potatoes). His eyes met mine across the conveyor belt. I was electrified. Of course, standing on a wet floor and shoving a fork into an electrical socket wasn’t the smartest move, but I was falling. Hard. (Floor was slick).
I didn’t know his name, this…this…manly man of mystery. Covertly, I asked the female co-worker-who-disposed-of-used-paper-products. She stared at me, clearly thunder-struck. “You don’t know…(dun, dun, dun)… Matt?” she gasped. “I thought everyone had dated him. Now, he’s dating my room-mate.”
My heart sank into the depths of despair. Life was over. I’d never love again. Then again, I had a boyfriend, so forget him.
Hours passed. Days even.
Then, I heard that Matt and the female co-worker-who-disposed-of-used-paper-products’s-room-mate had broken up.
I immediately dumped the boyfriend. Wonder what ever happened to him?
My hero and I were good to go. That night, a dance was held at the cafeteria. I prayed Matt would go to the dance and sweep me off my feet. Clouds scudded across the campus night sky, shrouding my world in pale, gossamer, wispy, delicate, moonlit purple prose. I carefully applied a coat of Bonnie Bell Lip-smacker and shoved half a box of Kleenex into my bra in hopes of impressing Matt, the Head Slopper with my lithe, wispy, curvaceous, deliciousness.
I arrived at the dance. The Bonnie Bell and Kleenex must have done the trick because, before I’d been there five minutes, a charming fellow with an unstylish ROTC buzz cut asked me to dance. I accepted since I had yet to spot Matt. Besides, I am a plucky heroine and plucky heroines take lemons and dance with them.
As I followed my soldier to the dance floor, Matt intercepted. Savagely, he yanked me up against his manly, throbbing, muscular body. “Hey,” he slurred in that sexy, I’ve-just-been-dumped-and-drowned-my-sorrows-with-half-a-bottle-of-Jack Daniels, kind of way. “Doh you werk at the caf-ter-a?”
I laughed gaily as I suddenly found myself dancing with two men. One, a rigid marine, the other a drunken slopper. Sloppy drunker? No matter. I was in heaven. This, was every girl’s dream come true.
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