02 Oct 06
The Booty Bandit Move that Befell Max in the Kitchen Cooler
“I heard something happened to you in a kitchen cooler,” I said to Max.
“Yeah,” Max said. “Me and Leo were makin’ French toast on the grill and this paisa, Chapo, who can’t speak English, and looks just like Fred Flintstone only with deeper stubble shadow and crazy-ass eyebrows, kept comin’ on to me. When I’d take a pan to the line, he’d lean over the food and put his ass out all seductive like. So I’m side-steppin’ him. I tell Leo, ‘You’ve gotta watch my back, dude. This queer’s tryin’ to come on to me, man. I don’t wanna hafta smash the fool.’ Leo says, ‘Yeah, dude. I’ve got your back, dude.’ A few minutes later, we start puttin’ excess food in the cooler. I go into the cooler. Leo’s watchin’ both grills with a spatula in each hand. I was holdin’ up a six-inch pan of French-toast batter about to slide it on a nine-foot-high rack when I heard the door close behind me. I kinda see movement by the apples, I turn – still holdin’ the pan up high with a corner on the rack – and Chapo – I don’t know how to describe this – is on his knees. All I saw was a stubbly face comin’ right at me, doin’ a little walk like a penguin on his knees. I said, ‘Whattaya doin’, man?’ I started coppin’ pleas, sayin’, ‘I don’t mess around. That ain’t my thing.’ In broken English, Chapo says, ‘You like. I promise.’ I told him no again. The whole time he’s shimmyin’ closer and closer on his knees. My arms are stuck in the air, so I turn 'cause I didn’t wanna expose my backside to him. He’s right there. I back up a step, so my back’s against the wall. That’s when he reached. He didn’t get my dick but he had a firm grip on my left nut. It was horrible 'cause I couldn’t move. He started unbuttonin’ and unzippin’ my pants with his other hand. Tryin’ to stop him, I started wigglin’ my hips like this.”
“You were doin’ the hula-hula?”
“Yeah. I started doin’ the hula-hula. But he gets my pants down and grabs me full on. I start gettin’ freaked out. Do I drop the batter everywhere? Do I kick him and risk injury to my man parts he’s clingin’ on to? He says, ‘Deja ver la vichola,’ [Let me see your schlong]. I tell him, I’m not a caquero – that’s a booty bandit – and I’m not up for another man. He told me again, ‘You like. I promise.’ I say, ‘No! Get away from me, man.’ I’m shocked, then angry, but some part of me was flattered in a small way that another man found me attractive.”
“Was he working your thing?”
“He’s tryin’, but I’m doin’ the hula-hula. He’s gotta good grip, so he’s followin’ me around.”
“Were you shrinking or getting aroused?”
“I’m not gettin’ aroused to the point that I wanna follow through, but I’m gettin’ a semi 'cause it’s bein’ touched. He let it go after much pleadin’. He looked all butthurt - like the finest woman in the world had shut him down. He turns around and leaves. I put the French-toast batter away and walk outta the cooler. Everybody in the kitchen is snickerin’, on the floor laughin’ at me, and sayin’ shit like, ‘Did you have a good time?’ Leo told me later that Chapo had come out of the cooler and wiped his mouth off when everyone was lookin’ at him to make them think he’d just got through blowin’ me.”
Should Max have dropped the French-toast batter?
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood