Page 122 of The Fed Sex Man

Jo

One of myfondest memories of my parent’s home was the smell of breakfast being cooked. Nothing made me get out of bed on a weekend morning quicker than a hint of my mother’s cooking.

I opened the oven and wafted the odor of the bacon toward the bedroom. A few minutes later, while I was contemplating waking him up, Tyson stumbled into the kitchen.

“Those new pillows are amazing,” he said. “I slept like a baby.”

“Well, after sleeping on them at the other house, I only thought it was fitting that we get them here.”

“Is that bacon?” He stepped up behind me and peered over my shoulder. “Smells good.”

“Until you give me a kiss, it’s off-limits,” I said.

He rested his hands on my waist and gave me a light peck on the cheek. “You cooked it in a cookie sheet?”

“It cooks evenly that way. Four hundred degrees for sixteen minutes, and it’s perfect,” I said. “You can cook a bunch of it at once, too.”

He reached around me and snatched up two pieces. “I love bacon.”

“Everyone loves bacon.”

Before meeting Tyson, I never understood the satisfaction my mother seemed to get from cooking. Now, everything made sense. Short of sex, nothing equaled the feeling of preparing a meal for a man and having him express satisfaction while devouring it.

I placed the skillet on the burner. “Over medium?”

“It’s the way God eats his eggs,” he said with a laugh. “That’s what my dad told me when I was little. In my dreams, I envisioned a man with a big gold robe, long gray hair, and a scruffy beard mopping up the yolks with dry whole wheat toast.”

“God eats dry whole wheat toast?”

“I thought so.”

“That’s funny. He wears a gold robe, too?”

“When I was a kid, I had this image of him conjured up. Gray hair, salt and pepper beard, weathered skin. Tan. Actually, I think the robe was burgundy with gold trim. And, he wore sandals. No pants.”

I tossed a slice of butter in the skillet and glanced over my shoulder. “God goes commando?”

“I didn’t give that much thought. He didn’t wear pants, though. Not in my mind.”

“Shorts?”

“Nope,” he said. “Just a robe.”

“Sitting around in his robe eating eggs over medium?”

“It’s funny. I ate scrambled eggs until dad told me that. He always ate them over medium, and I thought they looked like big yellow eyes. I asked him why he ate them that way, and he said, ‘that’s the way God eats them’. After that, I couldn’t eat a scrambled egg, knowing God ate his over medium. I’ve eaten them over medium since.”

“Sitting around in his robe,” I said with a laugh. “What kind of chair does God sit in? Or, what did he sit in when you conjured up this childhood image?”

“Throne,” he said matter-of-factly. “Carved of the finest wood. The legs were like a lion’s leg.”

“He sat in a fine wood throne and wore a robe. Did he drink milk?”

“Wine.”

“With breakfast?”

“With everything,” he said. “He got it at the liquor store, right inside the pearly gates”