“Dearest wife, can you come into the kitchen for a second?” The wife looks up from her boring article. She’s not super invested, but it would sure be inconvenient for her if something happened to him. She pads down the stairs into the kitchen, where she is greeted by the smell of boiling water and starches. There is a bowl of macaroni and cheese on the table.
“Did you make dinner?” she asks her husband.
“What’s the pasta for then?”
The husband clasps his hands together; he’s pleading. This ought to be good. “Can you do something for me?”
“I want you to cover yourself in macaroni and cheese.”
She huffs. “Explain,” she says, hiding her amusement.
“It is simple,” says the husband, “I have always had this fantasy of a woman covering herself in macaroni and cheese. I think it would be very sexy.”
“You think that would be sexy?”
“Yes. Most definitely. I think everyone has a fantasy of a woman covered in macaroni and cheese and that they are too afraid to admit it.”
It is true. Ever since the wife was young, she has had this fantasy. She has a distinct memory of sitting down with all her friends at the lunch table in the crowded cafeteria and feeling the urge to strip down and pour the gooey, cheap, school-made macaroni and cheese all over her. The sisters would have come over and screamed at her, tried to wrap her up and carry her off, she would probably have been expelled, but to feel that heat oozing down her body would have made it so worth it. Besides, she always hated the sisters anyways.
She fingers the oodles in the bowl. “So you want me to just pour this on myself?”
“Should I take my clothes off?” The wife tries to sound detached but is looking forward to all that cheddar running over her naked skin.
“You can do that.”
She watches her husband watch her undress. She noodles out of her underwear, hips swaying back and forth like a strand of spaghetti. She imagines the shocked looks on all her useless friends as their mouths hang open over their crappy school lunches, amazed by the sight of this animal.
Turning to the bowl of macaroni, the wife spoons some into her hand. Shell macaroni, she remarks, the most sensual of all common household macaronis, whose folds and orifices are perfect for a tongue to explore. She cups the hand with the macaroni around her breast (which is a perfect mix of firm and soft, like expertly cooked pasta) and lathers it around her chest. It was everything she dreamed it would be; it feels like a golden shower. As she reaches over to the bowl, the stray macaronis slide down her stomach, to her thighs, to her feet. She can hardly wait for the rest.
“Edam, this is getting gouda, but it’s kind of cheesy,” says the husband.
“Well, don’t let your noodle go soft, babybel. It’s about to get a whole lot feta,” says his wife.
She raises the bowl over her head and tilts it back. Out roll the thicc , un-feta-d, folds of chiz. The fondue falls hot on her face and cascades to the hard floor. De brie splatters across the smooth, clean tiles; it’s all over the place! The floor had just been cleaned that morning but the wife was too busy ravishing her asiago with macaroni to care. It was like shampoo you could eat. She was swirling it around her body in large circles, crossing several times over her nipples, which are hard as aged gouda. A few times, her hands pass her mouth and she is always sure to take a lick. It was so good she could cry. Where had it been all her life? She had eaten macaroni and cheese as long as she could remember, but she couldn’t believe she never realized it was her favorite meal until now.
Her fingers come to her lasagna, already damp with a light cream. She stuffs some shells between the folds and makes a ravioli no man could refuse.
“Do you want to come over and eat this out me?” says the wife, holding it in.
“No. I think I’m good.”
A few drips of cheese hit the floor. “What?”
“This wasn’t as sexy as I thought it would be. I’m sorry. You can clean up.”
What the hell. You can’t just ask a girl to cover herself in macaroni and cheese like that and not fuck her.