Monday, May 11, 2009

Banana Bread

The egg sat in the bowl, perfect in its daisy radiance, swimming in a slick halo of albumen. It was the visual music of life, it’s thin skin vibrating upon touch like the steel string of his guitar. He hated to destroy the peace of the moment, but the egg had some work to do with the oil and oat bran in the mixing bowl. The oil, of course, had experienced the length of his cock before dribbling into the bowl. The essence of him mixed well with the bran. Next, the wanton egg.

He took the simple spring egg beater and pummeled the egg into a light bubbling froth of light yellow. This was not done with anger, but with the love of creation. The fluff of protein and fat would hold everything together, would make a browned loaf fall out of the baking dish like a baby. He stood above the bowl and ceremoniously poured the bubbly liquid over his meaty sex, felt the flowery soft color dripping off his balls and into the bowl. She watched.

Then, it was the soda, the powder, the salt, the vanilla, and the bananas. The bananas were ripe and fragrant. Sweet in taste and smell, soft and pliant in texture, they released their mottled skin like lingerie peeled off a lover. They lay in a separate bowl, their penis curves arching into the thick fragrance of the vanilla, touching the acrid bite of the salt. Before her eyes, he forked the tender fruit into a slippery thick lotion that wanted, only, for her essence. One tablespoon of her, one measure of her pheromone power, one thin stream of her water, that’s all that was needed before the fecund fruit could flow off of him and into the caldron. He collected her tenderly, adding her formula with an alchemist touch. Then, it was up to him.

The formula, the nectar, the potion flowed over his straining tool, slicking it like her pussy. She watched as spurt upon spurt flew into the mixing bowl, along with banana, vanilla, salt and piss. His stomach tightened and he called out, invoking the muse of the life-giving property of bread. After calling to the gods, he stirred the pot, folding the flour, the ground seeds of fertility, into the fermenting unity of light and energy and life that would become a simple loaf of banana bread.


  1. Oh, BAK, glad to see you! I love it when you post! This is yummy!

  2. Hip-hooray for Banana Bread! Especially your kind. Goodness grief! I saw this great quote about aphrodisiacs in a book called "Gastronaut, adventures in food for the romantic, the foolhardy and the brave." The author points out that while there are plenty of sexy foods and various special herbs, etc., there are no *true* aphrodisiacs. He suggests some whimsical combinations that seem to work quite well -- alcohol and seafood, butter and skin, wine and a joint, urgency and legs. Frog legs? He goes on, "But I sniff a conspiracy. Imagine a world where an aphrodisiac does exist -- let's assume for these purposes that the banana is a potent aphrodisiac. What would people spend all their time doing? Eating bananas and making love. And when they finished making love, they'd make love some more. At that point they'd maybe eat some bananas and then...."

    "I reckon at some point someone *has* discovered or invented a real aphrodisiac, but they've either been assasinated or paid off by some shadowy Bilderbergian Christian fundamentalist businessman or the U.S. governmnent -- anyone who wanted to keep the masses in their uneroticized many ways they'd be right to do so; with the world overrun by aphrodisiacs, the human race would be extinct within a few generations, slain by banana poisoning and exhaustion. But what a way to go."

  3. And from "Lewd Food," by Robert Hendrickson, we have the following New Ireland love chant:

    Eat the banana;
    I look at him;
    I give him the banana.
    As the banana is with me now,
    So will the man be with me.

  4. My erotic appetite is stimulated by your prose. Nummy!