A Bacon & Peanut Butter Sandwich

Toast? Why do I smell toast?

My eyes flutter open, and a ratty brown teddy bear gazes at me through two glassy eyes. Could this innocent, if not entirely unsavory teddy bear be the source of the toast odor? And how does a teddy bear come to bear the scent of toast in the first place?

My new bedmate has no answers for me, so I don't even bother asking it whose teddy bear it is. There are six more teddy bears staring me down, and I imagine they aren't willing to volunteer any information either. I sit up slowly in bed, the fading smell of sex creeping into my nose.

Answer #1: I've been having sex with someone. Or someone's been having sex with me.

The room I'm in is unbearably girly, decorated mostly in lacey white thingamajigs and lined with various flowery whosits with a few touches of those soft, pastel whatchamacallits that girls seem to like so much.

Mingling with the smell of toast is the aroma of bacon, which seems to be wafting from down the hall. It would almost be pleasant and I'd almost be hungry if I didn't have that creepy sensation of "where the hell am I" and "what the hell am I doing here" pouncing through my lower intestine.

Answer #2: Somebody is cooking bacon.

I climb out of bed slowly so as not to make the teddy bears think I don't want to stay and cuddle, it's just that I have work, and I'm sorry, but I have to get out of here. Their glassy-eyed stares cut deep, but I have to be assertive.

I'm naked. Nakedness, for the most part, facilitates intercourse, but for now, I'm just cold, shrunk up like a sack of prunes, and vaguely aware that the unpleasant crispy stiffness of my pubic hair is starting to make my skin itch. A nice hot shower and shampoo with conditioner will take care of that, but I'm not even positive I can find the bathroom in this place.

I scan the room carefully, hoping to spot any sign of who, or what, I may have been having sex with all night before I'm forced to confront it in the kitchen. Except for the wall exhibiting autographed pictures of all the cast members from four different Star Trek shows, there are no pictures. If it means anything, Captain Picard is in the middle.

Answer #3: Someone really likes Star Trek. It's cool; I like Star Trek, too. Well, I don't really like it per se, but I've watched it before.

My anus hurts. Protruding from underneath the bed is a relatively large, strap-on rubber penis. I make a mental note to stop letting women do that to me no matter nicely they ask or how much they lie to me about how small the rubber penis really is.

I need something to wear, and I don't know where my clothes are. On a hook on the back of the door is a frilly pink silk robe, which will have to do for now. It won't be the first time I've worn one of these things, and I find they feel rather pleasant. Except for having a big rubber dick shoved into my asshole, I'm secure enough in my masculinity to wear the pink robe free of embarrassment.

I wander down the hall, following the scent of bacon and toast. As I enter the kitchen, I nearly drop at the feet of the beauty who stands before me. Tall, about four inches taller than I am; she's an Amazon. Golden blonde hair cascades down her back practically to the perfectly shaped rear, which is scantily clad in a pair of high-cut thin cotton panties. The cut-off t-shirt she wears reveals her perfect stomach and barely comes below her perfect breasts. She must be as cold as I am, because her nipples are--

I recognize her now, she's the girl that lives in the apartment below me. Good God, I can't believe I've actually nailed this princess, this vision of pure sexuality whose--fifteenth birthday was three weeks ago. Four weeks. Wait, sixteenth birthday.

Oh shit.

Wait, wait, wait, this is okay, because if she's only sixteen, and I'm twenty-six, then the regulations of statutory rape are still...SHIT!

"Breakfast?" she asks, as she notices me standing there.

"Uh..."

"I've got bacon and toast. Put them together with some peanut butter and you've got yourself a bacon and peanut butter on toast sandwich."

"Um..."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Well, ah..."

"Mom said she'd be back in fifteen minutes."

Mom? Mom? "Mom," I say hopefully, "You mean...?"

"Huh?"

"I didn't sleep with you?"

"No, stupid," she spurts, "I'm only sixteen. Besides, you've totally got this massive ick thing going on, but I know how lonely mom's been lately, and she really needed the company."

"Oh, thank God. You're sure we didn't have sex?"

"Ew, no."

"Okay." Relieved, I sit down at the kitchen table. She drops a bowl with about a pound and a half of bacon in front of me, then pulls a loaf of white bread out of the oven.

"Peanut butter?" she asks.

"No, thanks. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is your mom hot?"

She shrugs. "She's okay, I guess, for being like fifty years old, but she's cool. Kinda weird, but cool."

"Fifty," I say, trying to see the bright side in all this, "that's nice. Can I have the peanut butter?" I don't want peanut butter, but it seems better than accepting the fact that I let a fifty-year-old woman put a big rubber cock in my butt.

She drops the jar in front of me. I take the cap off and notice little white bits of mayonnaise mixed in with the peanut butter. This seems very appropriate. If I had a nice bacon sandwich on toast, I certainly wouldn't slather this crap on it.

I just described how I quit drinking in exactly one thousand words.