A Distinctive Woody Shrub

“Rosemary is a distinctive woody shrub, Rosmarinus officinalis, that grows in the dry Mediterranean scrublands, with leaves so narrow and tightly rolled that they look like pine needles. It has a strong, composite scent, made up of woody, pine, floral, eucalyptus, and clove notes. In southern France and Italy it traditionally flavors grilled meats, but it can also complement sweet dishes.”
--On Food and Cooking, The Science and Lore of The Kitchen, Harold McGee.

Eating the Piney Dew
--BAK

Rosemary. Why did her parents give her that name? Rosmarinus, “dew of the sea.” Why am I eating her, now. The dangerous alleyways, the filthy brick walls where I buried my hand in her poured-on jeans and found her damp bud; I think of this when the greasy lamb passes my lips. I think of her wild black hair, framing her olive skin, ringlets across her rising breasts, pink blossoms beneath her feet. Fences, train cars, garbage bins, bridges, swings in the park, high rise windows -- our playground when we were in high school. But, her name and her flavor were of wilderness. Rosemary, my forest, my tree whore, my penetrating flower…why did she leave me?

Perhaps it was the idea of her that, in fact, drove me away from her. The scent of her drove me away, to search for the primal essence of her amongst the rocks and flowers so far from where we grew up. Pine, clear in the snows of mountains, rubbed between my fingers; clove, cinnamon, pressed into my orange-rind skin; eucalyptus, the oils swimming across my skin: the heady, delirious, intoxicating idea of her made me leave. I wanted her as I drove out of the city, and I knew I would find the totality of her and the depth of who she was in the gardens of my culinary travels.

And so, now, I am eating her again and again. Her strong scent, her tightly rolled form, her narrow body is fodder for my lips and salivating mouth. I am eating her name. I am eating Rose and I am eating Mary. I am eating both of them and all of her, a thin memory of drool running down my bare chest. I savor her bitter parts and her emerald whole, her bouquet of swirling smell and sharp strong bite. My hand reaches for her again and again, rubbing her, releasing her, releasing her pungent delicious odor. She has become me. In her leaving, in my banishment to the dark woods, I have found obsession and craving and unrelenting hunger.

Hungry? Cum into my Kitchen.

Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp
Adapted from Contessa (Naughty slut)

12 ounces of fresh, juicy, well-endowed, uncooked, shrimp (prawns)
Freshly ground black pepper, long in its hardened orbs
1 T. of fresh Rosemary (harvested naked at dawn, while the dew is glistening and licking the toes), chopped
Balsamic vinegar
10 strips of marbled bacon, cut in half-lengths, before erection
Bleu cheese, rich and acrid

Steps:

Strip naked and preheat broiler
Put Michael Franks' "Barefoot on the Beach" on the sound system
Liberally apply virgin olive oil to skin
Pour a cool glass of rosemary/lime-infused Bombay gin

Place shrimp on baking sheet and sprinkle with black pepper, balsamic vinegar and rosemary
Wrap each shrimp, individually and lovingly, with half strip of bacon and secure with sprig of rosemary
Broil for about 3 minutes on each side, while dancing
Serve, with sprinkle of bleu cheese and a smile

______________________

Rosemary is a flowering shrub that has contributed its leaves and stems to many aphrodisiac recipes. Oil from its leaves and flowers have been added to love potions and perfumes. Bouquets of rosemary, “emblematical of manly virtues,” were once presented to bridegrooms on their wedding mornings, and bridal beds are still bedecked with the flowers, in some European countries, to ensure conjugal bliss. The herb has a very old reputation for improving memory and has been used as a symbol for remembrance. Shakespeare had Ophelia present a bunch to Hamlet, to remind him of their meeting on St. Valentine’s Day.

Rosemary has been used as a love charm, in Europe, since the Middle Ages. Newly wed couples would plant a branch on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was a good omen for the union. Placing a sprig under the pillow, at night, will ward off witches and repel nightmares.

Which….brings us to our discussion topic: What foods do you fix for a lover as a special act of love?

Thanks, ladies and gents, for stopping by for another Sunday Spice adventure, organized by Donna George Storey and Marina St. Clare

Here's the rest of the lineup!

8/16 Emerald
—poppy seeds

8/23 P.S. Haven
Haven—salt

8/30 A luxurious adieu!

Liquid

One drop.

Within the universe of that drop, the nerve ending of every nerve ending of every nerve. It slid, thick and oily, upon its random path, lighting small fires as it went, until it fell, releasing the hurricane that blew her arms and legs like flags in a storm. And, into the storm he swooped, wrapping her sinews about his wings, drawing her out into a pulsating stream of plasm that fell, in one golden drop, upon his screaming lips.

Pastorale

They went to this place often. The old corral, weather worn and dilapidated, stood off the dirt road, in the field of magenta and lemon-colored wildflowers. Red damsel flies and rusty-hued butterflies darted about. The waist tall grasses, even in early summer, were tinder dry and snapped beneath their feet. They walked quietly, absorbing the sun and the passion of their fantasies. The corral, a broken jumble of unpainted wood grain and sagging rafters, stood like a skeleton in the field. Open floorboards creaked and tipped beneath their bare feet. It was here, in the dappled light, in the ancient smell of horse shit, lichen and rotting timbers that they fucked like horses, like swallows, like rattlesnakes, like cicadas, like every animal that ever fucked. Then, they left, the evidence of their meeting drying in the high desert air.

Erotic Defined

There are times when words are not required or effective.

The Beginning

She fell asleep.

When she woke up, she couldn't move. The soles of her bare feet pointed east toward the rising sun. Her outstretched arms felt the last of the cool evening air as it was drawn away and up the flank of the mountain. Beneath her nude buttocks, the hardpan earth; above her naked breasts, the sucking sky. The first arrow point of sunlight that shot over the eastern escarpment impaled her pussy, pinning her to the desert floor like a butterfly. It radiated up her toes, up the insides of her splayed thighs and into the depths of her shameless womb. Her nipples, round and stiff and icy, soaked up the sunlight until they started to burn like candles, releasing her scent into the rising waves of air. Her wrists and ankles were secured tightly to the earth. Her hair entwined in the cement-hard soil held her head in place. She did not remember how long she had been in this place. She waited as the sun ejaculated over her sensitive skin.

She heard him before she saw him. The way the dust swished and scuffed told her that he was barefooted. He approached from behind her head and she really never saw his face. What she saw, looking upward, was two towering legs that ended in a heavy ball sac and a strong rigid cock. She could only watch as he stroked above her. She could only watch as his full nuts swung above her in rythym with his pumping fist. She could only watch as the bulbous head expanded and he shot cum all over her naked, immobile, body. Then, he left.

She lay there, rivulets of jism tickling the sides of her chest as they ran down her to drip onto the desert floor. She could smell the sweet pungent odor of his sperm as it baked and dried on her brown skin. The scent made her wet, made her ache. Lost in the aroma, she barely noticed the others. They stood, crouched, kneeled, bent above her. Men of all shapes and colors, all beating their meaty cocks above her freely offered body. So many cocks. They kept cumming on her. They coated her body with white thick streams of life. Some men pissed on her, some women did, too. Some women planted their crotches above her lips and squirted their juices over her face and hair. She glistened and sizzled and popped and fried in the blistering desert sun, covered with sex, sweat and pee. She was animal, she was earth, she was the chalice into which life poured. She took it all; it kept coming. The ground beneath her became mud; she sunk into it, becoming part of it. She was all woman and every woman who had ever sprawled, crawled, sat or walked upon the planet.

As the sun dipped below the western edge, the air chilled and drew her nipples up and nearly off her chest. She was planted. The roots of her sunk deep into the playa and spread in a fairy ring about her. She should have been uncomfortable in the cold, but the heat of her growing, dividing, splitting glowed within her. Dried cum flaked off her shell and blew into the baked and cracked mud of the ancient lake bed. With each puff of wind, she became warmer, incubating the fertile eggs of humanity's passion. She lay there, under a buck moon, her tendrils weaving flesh in every direction.

In the morning, when the sun's return flowed like melted butter across the desert, the crop was illuminated: bone hard cocks, rolling balls, obscenely open pussies, upward-arching asses, rising nipples, undulating breasts, gaping mouths, grasping fingers, curling toes. A sea of sex, in all directions, flowed across the playa from her firmly-rooted form. As the sun climbed higher, a wonderfully sloppy symphony of sex escalated toward collective climax. The cocks waved like poppies in the breeze; the pussies pulsed and gaped and leaked like squeezed lemons. Women gathered and squatted on the cocks, licked the pussies; men wrapped the grasping fingers around their cocks or shoved their members into open holes of every size; women sucked nipples; men fucked assholes. No combination of joy was overlooked. All day, the sweat and piss and saliva and cum of humanity spilled and pumped and spewed around her, as she sank further and further into the mud. By nightfall, she had become like her children, the holes into which life poured, and from which life and joy spread.

Butter

"Could you pass me the butter, please?" she asked, barely looking up from the counter. She was, after all, very busy with her fingers. In her left hand, a nine-inch blade; in her right, an onion.

I couldn't figure out what she needed with the butter, but she was gloriously naked and I was not about to question her motive. I set the butter dish next to her hip, grazing her curve with my fingertips as I watched her dice the onion. With a deft move, hardly interrupting the rythym of the knife, she dipped two fingers of her right hand into the long slab of daffodil-hued fat and scooped up a glob of the tasty oil. She spread the thick delicious butter, liberally, across her bare chest, from nipple to nipple, then turned to face me. "Lick it off," she ordered.

Her breasts, oh her breasts! Those muffins, those dinner rolls, those perfect butterhorns sitting high on her ribs, advertising their brash availability, screaming for lips! There they were, singing to me, butter nearly dripping off the nipples. Her hands were planted on the counter behind her. She offered her tits to me like a couple of hot croissants, steaming out of the oven. Voraciously, I dined, licking the thick oil off her as if she were a quickly-melting swirl of vanilla ice cream on a sweltering Midwestern summer's day. I licked everywhere, and fast, under the dough-soft curves of her tits, over the tops, around the sides, then all over those crouton-hard nipples. I licked until I was nearly delirious with butter and flesh.

She watched, approving. Her stomach tightened and her pussy pulsed. She rocked, gently, on her bare feet, her toes gripping at the hard, cool, linoleum floor. She loved me, she loved how I worshipped her. I did. She watched my tongue, the way its muscular searching dented the skin that stretched across her chest. She watched my forehead, my eyebrows, my nose, my fluttering eyelids, my eyes, the smirk on my face. When I sucked a buttery button into my mouth, she noticed the dimple in my cheek that always signaled devious intent, and fun. By the time the butter had been lapped up, replace by a thin coating of my saliva, she felt weak. But, she wasn't. She turned around toward the counter, forked a tablespoon of butter into the frying pan, then swept the chopped onion off the cutting board and into the pan on the stove. Into that she tipped a bowl of chipped beef. As the butter melted and flowed, on low heat, she stirred the beef and onions together, mixing the sweet salty pungent flavors together into a complementary whole. The kitchen swelled with the scent of a home.

She turned toward the butter on the counter. It accepted her fingers. Again, they shoved into the softening mass and pulled away, dripping with grease. They dropped into her bare crotch, spreading the golden oil from hole to clit. She glistened in the soft light of the kitchen. "Lick it off," she commanded.

I, of course, fell to my knees, praying before the shining flesh that she thrust, wantonly, in my face. Again, she placed both hands on the counter behind her, to steady herself. She spread her smooth legs and pressed her pelvis out toward my searching tongue. She pushed toward me as if her hard clit was as long as my cock, as if she could press it deep into my throat. Her butter-slathered button stood out like a escargot, warm and wet. Escargot in cum and white wine.

My face was covered in pussy butter as she raised up on her toes, poised to dissolve in wracking orgasm. Suddenly, however, she remembered the chipped beef and onions. The concoction had to be tended to. I was left there, on my knees, face drenched, as I watched her step away to the stove. As she stirred, I stroked my cock. As she stirred, I stood and slathered butter over my cock and balls until they slid away from my fingers. As she stirred, I spread her glorious ass cheeks, slathered butter around the opening to her body and drove into her. She stirred onions and chipped beef as I spewed into her, and her screams flew up the oven vent and through the roof.

Ranch Dressing

The truck eased to a stop, just shy of the dirt road turn-off. Without a word, he opened the driver’s door and got out. She watched him as he walked around the front of the truck, dust swirling about him. He opened the passenger door. “Get out, whore,” he ordered, the slightest of smiles etching across his rugged, sun-baked, face. Dutifully, she stepped down out of the cab, her delicately polished toes dropping like blood into the soft dirt. As ordered, she had worn, only, a thin cotton cropped t-shirt and her tiny ragged denim cutoffs.

“Turn around,” he ordered. She turned her back to him. Instantly, he grabbed her left wrist and slapped a metal cuff around it. He brought her right wrist around behind her and snapped the hard steel around it. The wetness started to seep out between the folds of her pussy, coating the thin strip of rough cloth that ran between her legs. She stood there, hands secured behind her back, her hardening nipples lifting the skimpy t-shirt off her skin. He reached around and gave them a strong pinch, nearly making her knees buckle. Deftly, he wound the blindfold around her head, tying it tightly. He turned her around. “You’re gonna be a good whore, aren’t you?” he said, running his strong hands down her hips. She almost whimpered when she answered, “Yes.”

He slowly unbuttoned the top of her shorts. “Tell me what you’re gonna be,” he ordered. “A good whore,” she gasped, as he yanked her shorts off. “Damn right,” he said, as he slapped her bare ass. He lifted her into the truck, picked her shorts up out of the dust, then closed the door. She sat, waiting, her wetness soaking into the biege leather.

He climbed into the truck and turned onto the dirt road. The windows were down and the building heat of the morning caressed her ribs and tummy and naked crotch. The road was rough, but he drove slowly. He drove silently. She could feel his dark intensity from where she sat. His strength controlled her. She would do anything for him. It seemed like they had driven an hour when the truck finally came to a lurching halt. He shut the engine off. The air was dry and hot and quiet. The muscles in her inner thighs twitched in anticipation. She could hear him open his door and get out, could hear his boots scuffing around the front of the truck, could hear the latch on her door being pulled and the soft clunk of metal as the door swung open. Cool air rushed over her legs and feet.

He lifted her out of the seat, his thick strong arms cradling her as he set her down, gently. A warm duff of juniper needles, dried sage and dusty dung cushioned her feet. He pulled her head to his chest. He had taken off his shirt. The smell of his skin drove her wild. “What are you gonna be?” he asked, his deep voice resonating through his chest wall. “A good whore,” she answered weakly. He stroked her hair with his large hands. “Yes,” he growled, “you will.”

He put an arm around her small body and led her to a long, low, branch that reached out under an ancient juniper tree. The gnarled branch arched behind her head. He grabbed her long, ropey, hair and twisted it around the branch. He wound a rope around it, tightly, so that her head was securely tied to the branch. A thin streak of cum dribbled down the inside of her leg. She stood there, waiting, tied to a tree with her hands behind her back and her chest heaving. She heard the thin snap of a jackknife and felt the cool blade slide between her breasts. He started a small slit in the fabric, casually folded the knife and dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans, then ripped her t-shirt wide open. It fell off her shoulders and gathered in a wad behind her back. Then, he said something she would never forget, as long as she lived.

“She’s all yours, boys.”