Cheesecake, Fried and Otherwise

So last week I'm having fried cheesecake (wonton-y and crazy good, Okinawa Restaurant on LaGuardia Place) with my friend Janie (of broken speculum fame), and she tells me I was responsible for her getting a gig modeling her ample undiewears in the May issue of Details Magazine. I couldn't be a prouder cheesecake pimp. Girlfriend knows how to represent.

Cut to days later. I’m nosing around Penn Station trying to find the place that has the insane Buffalo chicken panini, and I spot it. The May Details. It’d be quite a feat to exude more femininity than cover girl Orlando Bloom, but I’m keen to see if my Janie pulled it off.

I grab a seat on the Amtrak to Philly (where I sampled the faboo new TastyKake TastyGrahams pudding pie in a Graham cracker crust) and I settle in with my mag. And therrrrre’s Janie, the downward pull on her plush corpulence mimicked by the flesh colored draping behind her. In other shots, she’s crawling through an Elmer Battersesque setting, and reposing across a covetable divan, lustfully eyeing an even more covetable side table of pastries and cakes.

Also in undiepants: a fella. With a sheet-wrinkled belly and a respectable rack.

The accompanying article (“Super-Size Me, These men and women are hot for partners with more than a little meat on their bones.”) is silly in parts, and wildly misinformed in others (I know 400-pound people who fuck like bunnies) but mostly fair, to have been penned by vanillafolk.

Excited as I am to see such a thing in a mainstream magazine, and pleased as I am to have hooked Janie up with both fried cheesecake, and the men’s mag sort, I am distracted by a pages-away article on grilling, my eyes landing on the fully pornographic images of grill-striped sea scallops post-coitally dripping creamy orange tarragon butter sauce, and a sublime looking pepper-flecked pork tenderloin rubbed with mustard and bourbon (my favorite act of foreplay, by the way). As I gaze hungrily at the glistening grill marks, I feel myself being stared at.

Across the aisle, Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Guy gives up a smile. When his mouth starts to move, I yank off my ear buds.

“…turn back to the naked lady?”

Hmmm… cute or creep? So hard to tell, especially with the long-haireds. Either way, an article on fat sex ain’t no community event, certainly not one I’m inviting stranger-on-a-train to. I pointed to the magazine meats and said apologetically, “Kinda groovin’ on the pork right now.” And in what may have been the cruelest act of dismissal I’ve ever done without meaning to, I put my buds back in and returned to the article, which I then had to pretend to actually read until dude got off at Princeton.

I’ve since wished I’d taken his number and had The Naked Lady phone him. Then he’d be writing about this in his blog.