Kelsey Gray is a writer residing in the Midwest. Her poetry will be featured in Wisconsin Verse this coming fall. She braves blizzards and sub zero temperatures to frequent open mics because, she’s about that life. Her work is often experimental and generally offensive. She is an acquired taste, and no friend to delicate sensibilities.
The Burrito Stripper
I’ve always had a thing for obese women with dainty feet. They remind me of pig hooves, and I’m an avid pork eater. So naturaly when she sashayed to the center of the room, I knew I was in for a treat. She thrust herself into the pool of rice and beans, half swan dive half belly flop. The impact caused some fixins to flicker onto my left temple. I instantly found myself erect. Like a hippo positioning for a paps smear, she rotated onto her back and spread eagle. She grabbed two chubby handfuls of beans and began massaging them over under and between her massive white udders. I likened it to the sour cream on my burrito. She lifted her arms in the air, made jazz hands, then with full force, slapped both palms against her gut causing an eruption of ripples and waves like an angry river. My balls were tighter than Richard Simmon’s shorts at full lunge. The club staff made their way around the modest audience and passed us bowls of our choice with lettuce, cheese, or diced tomatoes. I considered my options carefully. I eliminated the cheese. I’m terribly lactose intolerant. The lettuce seemed to obvious of a choice. I opted for the tomatoes. I wiggled two fingers in the bowl imagining the texture to be what it must feel like inside her lady pocket. She was rubbing bean paste in her hooch when we were given the green light. Lettuce cheese and tomatoes rained down on her from the crowd. Putting her head back, she opened her mouth wide. My comrades and I continued to empty our bowls onto her. She rubbed herself with increasing vigor. I scooped the last small corner of tomatoes from my bowl. I took a moment to study her body, a huge mound of pasty vibrating flesh covered in burrito magic. Every inch of her so many inches were just about covered. Except, one pink nipple managed to avoid the storm. It seemed anxious. It was as if it was looking directly at me. It was as if the nipple and I were the only ones in the room. I knew what I had to do. I took the wet tomatoes, set my cross hairs, and shot them at the center of the bullseye. Upon impact, time stopped, and started in slow motion. The burrito stripper arched her back and made a slow deep growl like an angry bear who had just been hit with a tranqualizer dart. She remained contorted and motionless for what seemed like eternity. Finally, her body relaxed. She layed spread out in the pool, panting and slowly coming back to life. I made my way to the gentlemen’s room to freshen up the mess I made in my pants. I will never look at Mexican food the same.