“You look great without your glasses on!” I gushed to Koza. In fact, he looked like a different man altogether. His face was streamlined; his moonstone eyes unobstructed. If I thought he was hot before, consider this on-the-brink-of-combustion Chris.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I mean, you looked great with your glasses, too,” I continued as I leaned in for a bicep squeeze (I’m sorry, I know that move is overused, but it’s become a natural reflex. It’s the only body part on a married man I am allowed to touch!)
Chris stood there, expressionless, as though waiting to see if I would further shove my foot in my mouth.
Of course I did.
“Hell, you look great all the time!” I said.
Had I dug the hole deep enough yet?
No fucking way.
Chris’s bandmate, Peter Sieve, came over next. For about five minutes, Casey and Pete talked a blue streak about subs and who-the-hell-knows-what. I understood the gist of it: the sound on Casey’s stage was not up to snuff.
“So we did what anyone would do in that situation,” Casey said. “We turned the amps up all the way.”
“When all else fails, blast the volume,” Pete agreed. “And show more crotch.”
Both guys turned to me as though I was supposed to compliment them on their problem-solving techniques.
Talk about being put on the spot! I suppose I could’ve pretended to comprehend the technical side of rocking of someone’s world or pulled something semi-intelligent out of my ass, but instead…I told the truth.
“The only word I understood in the last five minutes was crotch,” I confessed.
Pete got a rise out of that. He said the feeling must be similar to when he’s watched Telemundo and the only words he understood were “Dennis Hopper.” (Though, really, we can’t compare the visceral reactions to Dennis Hopper’s name to the word “crotch” in any context.)
These awkward encounters with the Rogue Valley crew were midway through a marathon weekend of music networking. Haven’t I told you yet? I’m with the band. As in Pictures of Then. And when I’m them, I’m just one of the boys. Casey may be my new “boss”, but mixing business with blog subjects has proven oh-so-pleasurable.
My association with PofT + the Rock Star Guest Chef contacts + Mother Nature’s perfect timing (ovulation coinciding with the block party) = raining men. And boy, oh, boy, was I wet.
Having spent so much time up-close-and-personal with musicians lately, I've come to admire how they (mis)treat their guitars...and it totally turns me on. There are surely terms to describe these moves, but the strumming, the plucking, the rattling, the smacking. OMG. I'm getting all hot and bothered just typing the verbs, much less imagining a pair (or two) of practiced hands going to town on my own flesh.
In addition to oodles of musicians in 3-D, I had Cody Broccoli, Chris the Cameraman, and Slump Buster all texting me at once. The entire relationship spectrum from colleague to platonic friend to ex-BF was blowing up my phone!
Then there were the Man Eater admirers. I’ve never met so many in one night! It was totally flattering, especially because some of them I’d actually consider spending time with one-on-one.
For those of you (ahem, RunDoc) too pussy to approach me online, much less in public, here’s a crash course in meeting your fave erotic food blogger:
1) Introduce yourself. Full names, please. Anonymity is creepy, not cute.
2) If you’ve read my blog, say so. Though I’ll probably blush when you admit to being a Man Eater fan, if I know you know about the most embarrassing (and enticing) parts of my life, I’ll let my guard down faster. It’s an invitation to drop the façade and jump right into the yummy stuff.
3) Compliment, don’t question. The worst pick-up line (after “Where’s your boyfriend?”) is “Are you having a good time?” And when you stroke my ego, start with my smarts, then move on to my physical assets.
4) Finally, whatever you do, don’t insult me.
To demonstrate, here’s the worst of the worst of bad interactions from the weekend:
ME: (Sexting with Slump Buster in middle of crowd)
UNIDENTIFIED HOTTIE (UH): “Anybody on there is far less interesting than anything happening on stage.”
(Ever heard of multitasking? I am capable of listening to music and sexting simultaneously, ya know!)
ME: “I’ve seen this band before. Several times.”
UH: (Leaning over my Blackberry screen to read what I was typing. Hello! Talk about being in my "bubble"!) “Who’s so interesting anyway?”
Readers, before you assume this was your run-of-the-mill dirty talk, let me say this: sexting with Slump Buster makes my brain ache (among other body parts…) With a man as wicked smart as him, there’s a certain amount of mental gymnastics involved to make the sexting, well, sexy.
ME: “Do I know you?”
UH: (Giving me the I-just-sucked-a-lemon expression like there was no way in hell someone like him would be friends with someone like me.) “No.”
ME: “Well, what a way to make an impression!”
Lesson: Grade A Asshole behavior will not get you laid.
When the real rock stars and I moved inside the VFW, things heated up. On every level.
Who knows what it is about me (hmm…perhaps this blog?), but when I’m surrounded by skinny dudes wielding big instruments, they tend to forget their manners. They treat me like one of their peeps. Which is perfectly fine. What’s foreign is being surrounded by so many hotties who don’t want to fuck me. Or, correction: something sexy might ensue if they weren’t attached, but since they are, they’re more interested in what I bring to the boardroom than the bedroom. It’s all about what’s happening on the sheet music, not between-the-sheets. It’s making booty shaking tunes, not making booty calls. Playing guitars, not playing with body parts. Getting into the Kitty Cat Klub instead of my feline anatomy. Hmph.
And yet, the things I witnessed in the span of one Saturday night are enough to make any groupie come in front of her computer screen right now.
I was surrounded by dudes (some of whom will remain nameless by request) talking about nipping out, showcasing chest hair, and pulling girls’ hair. Rock stars bragged about rubbing one out, being sex machines, and having too much junk in the front to wear boxer shorts. (My response: “No you didn’t.” Him: “Yes, I just went there.”) One took off his shirt and said he didn’t mind if I watched (I wanted to, but didn’t). With another, I insisted he lift up his shirt to show off his abs; at which point, I couldn’t resist running my hand over the taut, tan musculature in a circular motion like I was waxing a Corvette. Vrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooom!
Remember the rock star that made me mute upon appearance? (Okay, there’s been more than one, but this one especially shuts me up on site for some reason.) On Saturday night, he still made every pore on my body sweat, but for once, the cat did not have my tongue. (Though his tongue on my clit would’ve really made me purrrrrrrr…)
He and I finally had a conversation, though the naughtiest it got was him remarking “You’re a forward lady.”
Forward? Yes, to put it mildly. Lady? Far from it.
And thank goodness for that, because any proper lady would've been offended by the language in the VFW. Forget locker room talk. This was pure and almost-adulterated cock talk. If you thought Man Eater had a filthy mouth, you have not been in a bar full of musicians at closing time. The raunch was through the roof. Boys I once considered wholesome were cracking jokes about cuming during each other’s songs, using set lists to mop up the jizz, and poop-packed porn.
Before Pictures of Then and I could call it a night, a lot of bumping went down. And I’m not talking fist-bumping (though musicians like to greet me that way, too, for some reason). “Bumping” is when two cell phone fanatics smash their cells together to transfer information. It’s quite funny. And rather inefficient. But whatever.
I woke up the next “morning” at 12:30 PM with a major hangover...and I’ve never been drunk a day in my life. Seriously, I don’t know how these guys do it night after night. (And by “it”, I mean drink. I could totally do them night after night, heh heh.)
Later that day, as I was cleaning out my car, I found a water bottle in the backseat. The “water” was yellow. I suspect it was whiskey, though it could have been piss. Had I really wanted to know, I suppose I could have taste-tested it. Then again, it’d probably taste the same to my palate either way.
Speaking of which, it’s about time we had a recipe on the so-called food blog! This may be TMI of the mother-daughter variety, but the VFW Block Party coincided with a surprise party for my mother’s 60th birthday. Because Mom hasn’t given a rat’s ass about my creative achievements for years (This might explain why I often distrust women and feel so at home with men), I totally blew off her festivities in favor of ass-kissing musicians. Bad karma? Probably. But to my credit, I contributed the cake...as in “Kiss My Bundt” cake. Gotta love that passive-aggressive MN Nice girl in me.
So. We've come full circle. At least where the cake is concerned. I’ve yet to come anywhere but the hot tub. Hmph, take two.
And on that note (musical pun alert), here's a clip of my Pictures of Then boys finishing off their set. Now I'm going to finish myself off. Consider this your invitation to join me...
For more aural pleasure, subscribe to Man Eater's YouTube Channel. For your oral enjoyment, try this recipe. Intimidating though it may appear, it's a piece of cake. Literally.
KISS MY BUNDT CAKE
Ingredients
For chocolate batter base:
1/3 cup Ghardelli (or equally quality) cocoa powder
¼ cup boiling water
3 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons oil
For vanilla batter:
7 eggs, separated
¾ cup water
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup oil
2 ½ cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
For decoration:
1 bottle Duncan Hines vanilla glaze
Crushed Oreos
Sprinkles
Method
• Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Coat bundt pan with cooking spray and sprinkle with flour. Set aside.
• Combine cocoa and boiling water in large bowl. Add 3 tablespoons sugar and 2 tablespoons oil. Whisk until incorporated; set aside to cool.
• In separate bowl, whisk egg yolks and ¾ cup water until incorporated. Add sugar, oil, flour, baking powder, and salt to bowl. Whisk until incoprated.
• In third bowl, combine egg whites and cream of tartar. Beat with electric mixer on high until stiff peaks form. Fold into vanilla batter.
• Transfer 2 cups of vanilla batter into chocolate batter bowl; stir until incorporated.
• Alternately spoon scoops of each batter into bundt pan. Swirl with knife.
• Bake 25-30 minutes or until toothpick inserted near center comes out clean. Transfer to wire rack to cool.
• Heat glaze in microwave according to package directions and drizzle on cooled cake.
• Alternately, transfer tub of frosting to Ziploc plastic bag and heat on high at 10 second intervals until melted. Snip off corner of bag with scissors and drizzle over cake.
• Decorate with crushed Oreos and/or sprinkles.
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