Food is my Love Language

A Little Tum Never Hurt Anyone

I flip the flapjacks, I make a bowl of warm strawberry drizzle, I take out the 100% pure maple syrup and the whipped cream. I sit down to eat as Lo looks on, sitting naked across from me like a puppy watching its master eat a T-bone steak.

“Have some,” I say, offering her a fork-full of pancake.

“You know I can’t,” she says shaking her head no.

“Just a bite.”

“Daddio, I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to watch my calories, go to the gym, work out, and lose some weight.”

“Darling, you are perfect just the way you are.”

“But I want to.”

“Well, do me a favor and don’t lose too much weight. I want something soft that I can hold onto, you know,” I say. As I get up and walk to the kitchen to get some juice, I lean over her, hug her, and grab her tum. “This,” I say, “I love this. Don’t you ever lose this.”

She slaps my hand away. “You don’t show your support for my efforts. In fact, it’s as if you’re trying to derail my goals.”

“Love languages.”

“What’s that mean?”

“We just have different love languages. I show my love for you by buying you cupcakes and lollipops and making you pancakes in the morning.”

“Yes, all things that go directly counter to my new regimen.”

“What am I supposed to do, put a new pair of running sneakers on the breakfast table for you?”

“No, but you have to understand, I can’t eat your pancakes anymore.”

I show her my sadface.

“You do make the best pancakes.”

“Today they are so light and fluffy. It’s really just like eating a cloud.”

“A cloud covered in drippy drippy sugar.”



“I’m just thinking about a cloud covered in drippy drippy sugar.”

“Fine!” she says, opening her mouth just the way she did in the bedroom. “One small bite.”

I put about three small triangular pieces of pancake with syrup and strawberries and whipped cream on the fork. I hold it up in front of her salivating mouth. I tease her for a moment, making her beg before slowly putting it in her mouth. She chews it with a look of sensual pleasure on her face, just like she did in the bedroom.

“What?” she asks when she sees me looking at her funny.

“You have some cream on your face.”

“If only!” she says.

[Excerpt from the story, “She Is My Slut (and I Love Her),” from the blog:]

Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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