This is the first in a series of erotic, realism based novels where the protagonist never gets laid. It’s called PIZZA LOVE.

If there is anything that 20th century males have been taught by low budget, cocaine fueled pornography; it is that pizza boys get lots of ass. And I mean lots of ass – tons of it actually. I mean we’ve all heard the jokes. Hell, some of us even have the dialog from the scenes memorized.

The lonely Soccer Mom opens the door of her huge three story oak house, an angelic white towel wrapped around her hourglass figure, melting your soul with her sultry blue eyes.

Sure she may already have everything she could ever want – A rich but often neglectful husband who is always out chasing younger ass. Or perhaps she owns the first season of Grey’s Anatomy, which she watches with her other thirty year old, but less attractive girlfriends as they discuss female hygiene, pool boys, and the view.

But alas you, deliverer of pizzas, are what she lacks. Hot loin fire, passion, and the thrill of being with someone half her age that is making a quarter of her husband’s annual salary. You, deliver of pizzas, are probably stoned. You probably didn’t finish high school. You probably have long hair and babble about John Bonham excessively. But you will be goddamned if you are not desperate, eager, and willing.

Or at least that’s what you’re lead to believe. I’ll admit the first few weeks on the job I was a bit skeptical, and I should have stayed that way. But as a male in the heat of the moment you tend to think with your cock and piss with your brain.

I remember the first time that hot 30-year-old two-legged vixen of sex and death opened her front door in an angelic white towel.

I thought: “Dear God in heaven. Let this be it, let this be the time when I am finally rewarded for all the wonderful things I have done on this earth with the bountiful blessing of this woman’s body.”

She invited me inside. And upon entry, I marveled at her outstretched marble floors, gigantic birdcages filled with canaries, and her huge vaulted ceilings.

She took the pizza into the kitchen with her, set it on the counter, and walked to her purse resting on the kitchen table to get the cash. She took her time on the way back, accentuating the bounce of her hips, and the arch of her feet as she gazed into my eyes. She pressed a single finger to my lips, my lungs completely breathless, and whispered, “here is the twenty for the pizza.” I felt her voice on my skin.

“And for the tip,” I think, my thoughts sailing off into wild, vivid fantasies.

“For your tip,” she says, sliding her hand down my back before dropping her towel and saying, “this.”

And I smile and she winks.

“Good thing I brought extra sausage,” I say.

“Sir?”

And then I take her hand and lead it down to my belt.

“I want you to be my puero-rican squirrel of love,” I say. Nibbling at her ear, “I want you to be Elian Gonzalaz if he were in The Chipmunks.”

“Sir?”

“I want you to raid the inner bowels of my King Tut’s tomb.” I say as she goes to unzip my pants.

“Sir, did you hear me?”

“I want you to be like my first. In high school they called her Puck Slut, because she fucked the entire hockey team. Oh, and Lacrosstitute! she also banged the entire Lacrosse team, too. That shit was hot. Yeah I bet I’m getting you so hot. Be skank-a-licious, not nutritious.”

We go to kiss and she says, “Sir, are you alright? I don’t have any extra tip.
Hello sir?”

And just like that, here I am in the foyer. She stares at me, still wrapped tightly in a towel, staring at me. And everything is exactly the same, except now I’m covered in sweat with a huge hard on and the canneries are chattering in their cage, laughing at me.

And that was it.

Imagine this: there are no groans of lovemaking echoing through the foyer, just the clicking of lonely heels on marble floor, echoing up to the vaulted roof, muffled by the clatter of the canaries all laughing at you.

Then the oak door slams behind you.

And you’re stuck out there with a raging hard on.