My finger caresses the Helmann’s label gently.
It beckons to me, and I dream of slapping it on thick betwixt my buns.
I insert my thumb around the rim and grip, my stomach moaning. Aeughh
The lid is greased, covered with a tangible moistness.
I lift my leg up onto the table and heave.
I want to fuck—I mean I want to eat this mayonnaise so hard right now—I mean so much right now.
Let its white, non-newtonian fluid enter my throat.
With all my might I attempt to screw it—I mean unscrew it.
Rotating my hands and clasping its supple… tits.
It’s my lewd lubricant
My condiment condom
I can’t catch up with ketchup
And I poop on grey poupon
I can’t put my dick on dijon,
Horseradish is only rad-ish,
Can’t muster the mustard,
Don’t relish any relish.
It’s not cinco de mayo, it’s on-the-brinko-de-mayo,
It’s not a metaphor, I just really like mayonnaise.
I twist the lid again and again, ever so slowly, and…
There’s the squirt! The release of the off-kilter white goodness.
I change my pants and continue trying to open the jar of mayonnaise.
It’s proving difficult, and I admit defeat, my sexual gratification once again unfulfilled.
I couldn’t get saucy.
