Um, you Globe-heads may not know this, but you DON’T HAVE TO COPY THE WHOLE FREAKING POST when you quote someone. You CAN go in and delete the irrelevant portions. I’m sure my customers loved your story, struuter - I certainly did - but it just doesn’t need to be posted three times.
Now come give me a kiss so we both know we ain’t mad.
Dang it, Chef. I honestly didn’t know it did that. A THOUSAND apologies…it wasn’t even very good to begin with. I think that is the third time I’ve tried to quote and I suppose you are the victim of my lack of expertise.
Won’t happen again.
Forgive me? How can I make it up to you?
struuter
Ohhhhh, I think we can come up with something… leer
Hmmm. Note to self–make more mistakes; provides opportunities to make good with Chef.
Chef, I’ll leave that up to you. I have total trust in you.
Well, for what it’s worth, I did know this–I just felt that Struuter’s story deserved to be quoted within my reply (besides, Chef, it makes your thread seem longer and even more impressive).
Err, um…no comment. (Besides, no one has actually said YES, yet. The real question is: which one do I WANT to say “yes” the most? I’ll never tell.)
But it’s true that you are one of the many deserving ones:
“Well you deserve: they well deserve to have,
That know the strong’st and surest way to get.”
–Richard II, Act 3, Scene iii
I’m here and saying,
Chef Troy, Get Me Cookin.
Read my sig…
So, cheffie, where’s my little gem of erotic stimulus? 
saunters over to Chef. Chef dear, have you forgotten about me, or were you waiting for my reply, before you went ahead and posted?
i’ll be over here on the couch waiting…
Chef, I feel so forgotten.
Please get me cookin’…
with orange brandy sauce and chocolate shavings on top.
Cheffie! I’m going to have to write my own if you don’t put out!
Also if you don’t write me a story, too! 
Calm down, everyone…don’t get your knickers in a twist.
I apologize for keeping everyone waiting, but I haven’t been able to get any private time on the computer to do any writing lately. My wife and son are leaving town today for a week’s visit to my inlaws, and this weekend I’ll be setting aside a block of time to catch up.
I just know that Cheffie is going to start posting new mash notes soon. Right?
Ah what the hell. Freak chickened out and gave me a letter poem. I have to turn to Da Chef for the goods.
I need validation, Cheffie!
Chef:
Tabarnouche is Québécois for “oy gevalt.”
Dear Doobieous –
It was fun watching you and your friends cavorting at the BBQ over the Webcam. Even though I was sitting in a darkened room hundreds and hundreds of miles away, I felt like I was there with you. In fact it was better in some ways, because I could gaze at you all I wanted without worrying that I might be embarrassing you. I admired the way the late afternoon sunlight gleamed on your hair, and wondered if it would be soft or hard to the touch…watched your muscles flexing beneath your shirt…it was a damn sight more interesting than anything on the TV, I can tell you that!
As the party wore on, I sat in my dark office, slouched in my chair, occasionally typing greetings or comments that were read out by whoever happened to be at the computer out there in California. Gradually the group thinned out, and I think I may have dozed a little…
Suddenly I opened my eyes to see that on the webcam, the room was empty. I was about to switch off the feed when you came in and turned on the lights. Scratching your ribs absently, you strolled over to the computer, apparently to turn it off. I quickly typed a greeting, and saw your face light up. You looked into the camera and mouthed “Hi Cheffie!” Funny, I remembered that earlier there was a lag of a couple of minutes from when I typed something in till people reacted to it, but the link seemed to be real-time now…
I was about to type a mock-angry rebuke to you for refusing to dance for the camera earlier that afternoon, when I realized you were writing quickly on a dry-erase board. You held it up and it said, “Ready for your show?” I hurriedly typed “yes” and you stepped over to the door, closing and locking it. Returning to the computer, you thought for a minute and held up the new Santana CD. I wrote that I happened to have that one too, and you wrote, “Smooth… on the count of three.” on the board. I grabbed the CD and put it in my player, then cued up the song and typed “ready.” Remote in hand, you stepped to the center of the room, counted to three with your hands, and then we started our CD players at the same instant. As the seductive guitar licks filled our two rooms, you began to dance to the music. In perfect time with the music in my room, you began to grind your hips and rub your hands over your body. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
You grinned at the camera, made a “why not” face, and began to slowly remove your shirt. As your fingers drew the shirt over your head, you gyrated your masculine torso in a way that had me fairly panting. Lifting the shirt over your head, you playfully twirled it over your head and slung it across the room. Rolling your body like an experienced chippendale’s dancer, you began to seductively slip your fingers under the waist of your shorts, lowering them slightly and then easing them up again. I was holding my breath…how far were you going to take this? I got my answer almost immediately when you turned around and bent over, showing off your cute buns wrapped snugly in the khaki shorts you were wearing, and then stood and looked over your shoulder at me. Smiling, you slowly slid them off. I was gasping at the sight of your ass in the tight clasp of a pair of bikini briefs – you must have put them on just for this…
The CD went on to another song unnoticed by either of us. You were moving closer to the camera now, doing less dancing and more just rubbing your hands all over yourself. I was beyond turned on, and judging by the bulge in your briefs, so were you. With trembling fingers, I typed “please don’t stop” on the keyboard. Grinning, you made an OK gesture, and slipped your thumbs under the sides of your briefs. Bit by bit they slid lower, and suddenly you stripped them off. I had long since started running my hands over myself too, and now I stared at your naked body. You stared into the camera and I got the strangest feeling you could see me too, even though that was impossible. I also knew that no one was tuned to this camera feed but me…I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. The rest of that strange encounter is a little hazy, but I know you put on a hell of a show.
The next thing I knew, I had stirred in my chair and looked up to discover a “sign” on your webcam saying it was offline. I realized I’d dreamed the whole thing…Shaking my head at the things my brain coughed up, I popped open the CD player to put in an album, and in there was… the Santana CD. I stared at it for the longest time, wondering if my darling Doob really HAD done that wonderful dance for me…
Dreamily yours,
Cheffie
I’m sure all you ladies have long since gotten bored and given up on me. I’m sorry… I was in the fell grip of the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever had for months, and once I finally got over it I’ve been catching up on some mash notes I’d promised to people over on the Fathom message board.
I need to get my erotica-writing muscles in shape, however, because I plan to enter something in the Baudelaire Prize contest next January, so the cover’s off the keyboard. I’ve gone over the thread and I figure I owe mash notes to the following people:
[ul][li]ssskuggiii[/li][li]Struuter[/li][li]magdalene[/li][li]Sunshine[/li][li]Hamadryad[/li][li]Ruffian[/li][li]Scotticher[/li][li]AudreyK[/li][li]Hypergirl[/li][li]Anniz[/li][li]Javamaven1[/li][li]MrCynical[/li][li]SmoothOperator[/ul][/li]
Without further ado, here’s your letter, ssskuggiii!
Dear ssskuggiii,
If you followed my instructions, you’re reading this on your 18th birthday… although I suspect you might have cheated and read it a little early, you scamp.
I’ve wanted for some time to tell you how I feel about you, but I didn’t dare… if you hadn’t felt the same way I would have been crushed, and if you had, we might have been tempted into acts that could have landed me in jail. I know I’m still running the chance of rejection, but now that I’m not breaking any laws I feel like it’s worth the risk to tell you that you captivate me, that I desire you, that ever since you first made it clear that you didn’t consider me too old for you I’ve been grinning like a fool. I hope you’ll come to the hotel I told you about the night we met so I can make my own wishes come true.
I want to take your hands and draw you into the room, delighting in the way your eyes seem to look at everything except my own. I want to stroke your hair back from your fine clear brow and cup your sweet face in my rough hands, then slowly lower my lips to yours, prolonging the anticipation of kissing you for the first time as long as I can before making it real. I want to draw your body against mine, letting my hands wander down your back to cup your wonderful buttocks as you sigh into my mouth, our lips still locked together as our tongues explore and encounter each other.
I’ve waited for nearly a year to admit that I want more than anything to kneel before you, smiling up at you as I undo the buttons on your top one by one, revealing the smooth, firm flesh beneath. Soon your blouse would be a purple puddle of fabric around your feet, to be joined by your pants and the rest of your clothing. I would stand and take you in my arms, reveling in the feel of your smooth skin before plunging my hands into your fine dark hair and drawing your face close for another of those kisses that stop time. I would draw back only when I felt your hands, tentative but eager, struggling to strip me as naked as you.
Then I would carry you to the bed and show you that experience can hold its own against youthful energy. We would explore each other’s bodies and give each other great pleasure, ssskuggiii. That’s what I want. Those are my wishes. Come to the hotel and grant my wishes.
Yours impatiently,
Cheffie.
By the way, folks, I think I’d better not take any more requests for notes for the time being. At least not until I’m all caught up.
Aw dammit! I wanted to see how you’d do with a big ol’ hairy, ugly ogre! OK, OK. This is not a request.
Forget I even mentioned it.
Hey, Ogre, if you don’t mind the all-too-likely possibility that I won’t get around to it until next summer, I could probably squeeze you in. I have written them for a couple of men… check out the one I did for matt_mcl on the previous page.