BUTTERMILK BREAD BONANZA

by Chris Mardiroussian

We finally arrived at Buttermilk Bread’s apartment. She lived behind the Chinese Theater and the Hollywood Walk of Fame. She had money. Lots and lots of government money. How else could you afford a luxurious apartment in the entertainment capital of the world?


Our cab driver, Don Julio San Juan, politely opened the back doors of the rapist van. We all hopped out. We thanked him for not touching our no-no square.


“Of course,” he said.


What a guy, I thought.


We stood right outside the glass entrance doors of the apartment complex. It required a keycard. Or, someone could open it from the inside. Full-proof. Hollywood-proof.


Buttermilk Bread was scavenging through her purse. “Umm, there’s a problem,” she said anxiously. “I can’t find my keycard.”


Our eyebrows raised at one another.


“Well, now what?” Jeremiah asked.


“We can climb up there?” I said.


“What a stupid idea, genius. We’d need a rocket up our asses to do that. You’d probably need two rockets for that dumb ass of yours,” Sky Phoenix said.


“You’re right. I could fit two rockets up my butt,” I said.


“And there’s no floor mat with a key under,” Salty Supreme said.


We stood there scratching our heads like a bunch of orangutans at the LA Zoo. We needed an idea. Correcting Buttermilk Bread’s blunder of losing her apartment keycard. You wouldn’t expect that from a government agent like her. Then again, you can never judge a toast by its bread.


Out of nowhere, Pan Dulce snapped her fingers. “I have an idea. Why don’t you see if Sam is there?”


“Not a bad idea, woman. I’ll give Sam a call,” Buttermilk Bread said.


She called Sam, her roommate.


It took a few minutes, but Sam opened the doors from the inside. This guy wore a floral Hawaiian shirt, navy blue board shorts, a red sailor’s hat, barefooted, and of course, had on black shades. What a cracker. Most definitely gets poontang, I thought. Take notes.


#


We maneuvered our way to Buttermilk Bread’s door. Apartment 206, it read. The door was cracked a pinky-wide open. We entered. Everyone inhabited the couch. Bottles of vodka, wine, and beer lined up on the dining room table from one end to the other. I thought they were done drinking for the night. They barely managed to keep upright in a straight line to the parking lot. Wrong. I had no idea Buttermilk Bread, a government agent, possessed an alcohol cellar in her apartment. Respect, I thought.


For some reason, I had a strange case of FOMO. I didn’t want to be that awkward point-Dexter without a drink in his hand. Jeremiah went and poured me a full red cup of wine. Not my favorite, but whatever. I saw Pan Dulce go pour her own cup of wine. Damn.


They put on some heavy-metal Metallica to liven the ambiance. I couldn’t hear myself think. Alcohol and heavy metal don’t mix. It’s like a woman trying to pee standing up. Shit doesn’t work. Fuck.


The others congregated towards the center of the living room. I and Pan Dulce stood by the living room window as far away as possible from the damn speaker. It seemed I was the only one she could or would tolerate.


“So, Pan Dulce, how ya’ feeling?” I asked, trying to make small talk.


“I’m fine now. Nothing a little red wine can’t fix,” Pan Dulce said.


“Right.”


I took a swig.


“Come to think of it, I wish it was only us two tonight. Why can’t the others be like you and me? You know, when things go south, just make the most of it.”


“Right.”


I took a swig.


She continued. “Sometimes I wonder why I affiliate myself with them. You know, why I hang around people who are such downers. I need people who are uppers. Need light. Not darkness…”


“Right,” I said. “Need wet. Not dry.”


I took a swig.


“Exactly! I need someone like—” Buttermilk Bread jumped in between us, bumped into my arm. The damn bread nearly collapsed my drink. Whew.


“Hey, Mike, what ya’ drinking?” Buttermilk Bread asked with her face a nose hair away from mine. No personal space.


“Some red wine,” I said.


I took a swig.


“I heard you like whisky…,” Buttermilk Bread said.


“I do.”


“I have some special bottles of whisky if that wine isn’t cutting it…”


“Sure, why not? I’ll go for some of that.”


I took a swig.


“Nice! I’ll lead you right to it.”


Her nose twitched. The wrinkles on Pan Dulce’s forehead creased. Should I have said no? Ugh, too much thinking. Need more drinking.


I looked at my cup. “I still have a third of wine left.”


“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.” Buttermilk Bread snatched my cup and downed the wine like a blowjob. Albino Tasmanian Devil. She grabbed my hand. We bulldozed through the group of intoxicated nematodes to where the bedrooms were. We stood in front of the door.


#


We entered. She closed the door, leaving behind a booze-induced realm. She told me to sit on her bed. Make myself at home. I didn’t argue.


“Sure,” I said.


The bed was comfortable. It felt like sitting on whipped cream. From the looks of it, it seemed like a queen-sized bed. I’m no mattress king, but just an estimation. Enough to fit two elephants spread wide. Ginormous.


Her room was quite neat. It had a window with a view. She had a desk with a laptop. A vase full of flowers to soak in the natural moonlight. The walls were painted sky blue. The wood was polished mahogany. The closet looked like two sliding mirrors grooving side-to-side, hip-to-hip. There was a nightstand with a book. Not what I’d expected, I thought. No judgement. Just a bit.


I saw her scavenging through her closet. Searching high. Searching low. I noticed her on all fours with her ass hanging out from under that dress. Or, should I say mini skirt. She wore a honey-doo-colored strip of fabric covering her anus and genitalia. Quite serene. Her peach and poontang were delectable. Not an ounce of decency, I thought. Delicious. Bastard sprung out. I tried thinking of something unpleasant. Wild thoughts. Bullocks.


The closet doors slid shut. I stared straight out the window. She came and stood in front of me. Great.


“Mike,” Buttermilk Bread said. “I found a bottle of 14-year-old bourbon. It’s time we get you drinking some of this. Let’s double team it. What do you say?”


I saw the holy water.


“Sure, why not?” I said.


I normally don’t share. Since Buttermilk Bread was kind enough to sacrifice this priceless artifact, I let it slide. The least I could do. You know, be a gentleman. She pulled out two glasses like rabbits out of a hat. Didn’t expect that. Never judge a toast by its bread.


She poured me the first glass of whisky. Stopped a third of the way. Here we sat. Two acquaintances. Two glasses. Bread and Mike. Not so bad. Maybe she’s alright, I thought. Maybe.


We both took a sip.


“So, Mike, how’s everything?”


“Can’t complain.”


I took a sip.


“How about you?”


She took a sip.


“I wish I had what you had.”


She took a sip.


“Really?” I said. “What do I have?”


“Let’s finish our glasses, then I’ll tell you.”


Mike didn’t oppose it. Mike was curious. Rarity, I had with her. Must be the whisky, I thought. Must be.


We chugged our glasses of whisky. Burned like a motherfucker. I felt my esophagus melting from the inside. Bourbon is no joke. She seemed unhinged by the fiery sting. As if, immune to holy water. Was there something I missed?


She looked a bit zig-zagged. “So, how’d it taste?”


“Bourbon is no joke,” I said, “you weren’t kidding when you said you had the good stuff. Wow.”


“I’ll pour us another. Can’t let this go to waste, right?” Buttermilk Bread said.


“Sure, why not.”


She poured a second glass of whisky. Stopped halfway. Here we sat. Two buddies. Two glasses. Not so bad, I thought. Not so bad.


We both took a swig.


“So, Buttermilk Bread, about what you said earlier…”


She took a swig.


“Mike, can I ask you something?”


I took a swig.


“Sure, what’s up?”


She took a swig.


“We have known each other for a while….”


I took a swig.


“What can I say, we’re close friends.”


She took a swig.


“Right.”


“So….”


“Let’s finish our glasses, then I’ll tell you.”


Mike didn’t oppose it.


Must be the whisky, I thought. Must be.


#


We scarfed down our glasses of whisky. It didn’t burn as bitching as the last glass. Bourbon burns less and less the more your tongue soaks in the firewood fiasco. We both seemed unhinged as if immune to holy water. It’s about time.

               

She poured a third glass of whisky. Stopped at the top. Here we sat. Two souls. Two glasses. Bottle on its last leg. Not bad.


We both took a swig.


“So, what’s your question?” I asked.


She inched two nose hairs closer to me. Our shoulders and thighs were dry humping one another. I needed to adjust. She looked anime-like. Eyes locked.


“So, Mike, what do you think of me?” she asked.


I took a swig.


“I think you’re responsible, honest, and have the drive.”


She took a swig.


“Thank you, I really needed that…”


“Yeah, no problem.” I took a swig. Tasty.


She took off her glasses, reached behind me to put them on the nightstand, and reverted back to her starting position.


She put her hand on my shoulder.


“We can start now….”


“What do you mean?”


Her grip tightened.


“You know….”


“I don’t follow.”


“Let’s finish our glasses and I’ll show you…”


Must be the whisky, I thought. Must be.


#


We put our empty glasses on the nightstand. She mounted herself on my lap, clenching her thighs tightly with mine. It felt like a thigh-blaster. Except, these legs wouldn’t blast. Stuck.


She put her rosy-winter face an inch away from mine. I was so used to seeing her with glasses. I never noticed her hazel eyes before. Mesmerizing. I could smell lavender shampoo and misty-breezy teeth. She stared directly into my retinas. Her hands shifted from my shoulders to the front of my shirt. Hands directly over my chest.


“So, ready for this…,” she said.


I nodded.


Without hesitation, she ripped apart my shirt.


“Tease me, Mike. Please me, Mike. Let’s get freaky, Mike!” She shouted off the top of her lungs. Nobody could hear. Nobody.


“Umm, won’t someone hear us?” I said.


“I promise, I’ll be quiet. I’ll even lock the door. C’mon, I want all of you.”


Her hands began to hover over my zipper. Like that, my pants were off. My boxers were left. Shit.


“If we do this, there’s no going back,” I said.


“Who cares? Let’s do this already!” She shouted.


I tried to wiggle free, but it was no use. She must’ve had old-man-strength. I sat there heavily paralyzed due to the overdose of bourbon. I suppose if you can’t beat em’ then join em’. It must’ve been the whisky, I thought. Must have.


She locked the door.


We were butt-naked.


I couldn’t believe it.


#


Within a blink of an eye, she swallowed the Bastard. Bite like boca. Sip like Mocha. Sinking. Soaring. Sinking. Soaring. Sinking. Soaring. The Bastard became Big Brother. Not half bad, I thought. She knew the trade. When to slow down. When to speed up. She was that good.


She gagged.


Yes.


After several sweaty, slippery, saliva-filled suctions of sucky-sucky, she divorced her mouth from Big Brother. Big Brother didn’t want the divorce. Big Brother almost whimpered. Almost.


“What do you think?” she said.


“Is that all you got?” I said, hungry for more.


“Oh, is that so?” She took off her dress. Tossed it on the floor. She didn’t have a bra. Only panties. Freak-a-leak, I thought. Freak-a-leak.


“You like what you see?”


Look at those delicious M&M nips, I thought.


“I do.”


Hate to admit it, but she looked tight like a tiger. Big Brother stood tall. Never judge a toast by its bread. Amen.


“I have tons of rubbers in the nightstand. Let’s just say, I never made it this far with the last guy….”


Why not? I thought. Then again, it didn’t matter.


“What the hell,” I said. “Let’s just go for it.”


#


Buttermilk Bread grabbed not one, but thousands of rubbers. No joke. She meant business. These rubbers will last a few hours, I thought. Maybe even a few minutes. Her predatorial pearly white fangs tore one of the wrappers into smithereens. The ultra-thin kind. Rumor has it, they stimulate more sin; less plastic. It’s like going raw. Then again, it didn’t matter. She put food on the plate for Mike to eat.


The bourbon did a number on me. I came clean.

               

“Umm, you don’t mind being on top right? It’s just, I can’t really feel maneuver at the moment. Let’s just say, limbs are on holiday.” Spoken like a true gentleman, I thought.


She looked into my soul. “I was planning on being on top anyways whether you liked it or not. This cowgirl is ready to ride her stallion. This long, tan, and handsome stallion. I hope your stallion can take it,” she said, caressing the tip of Big Brother.


I nodded.


Keep it dumb.


I felt a lubricated latex slinky Big Brother. Suffocating Big Brother. Big Brother couldn’t breathe. I told Buttermilk Bread to free him. She agreed.


“You ready?” she asked.


“Ready, honey,” I said.


This is it, I thought.


She took a squatting position. Ready to drop it like it’s hot. Out of nowhere, we heard two knocks on the door.


“Hey, is everything okay in there?”


It was her.


“Why’s the door locked?”


I looked at Buttermilk Bread. “What do we do?”


“Fuck. It would be her. Tell her we’re fine. I don’t like to be kept waiting,” Buttermilk Bread whispered.


Fuck-a-doodle-doo, I thought. I had to make a decision: parched pussy or a clean track record. There was only one thing to do. I took a deep breath.


“No need to worry. Everything is under control,” I said.


“Are you sure?” she said. “You two have been gone a long time…”


“If you want to fuck this tight pussy, tell her to leave,” Buttermilk Bread whispered, rubbing Big Brother across her almond-butter bosoms. Damn.


“Okay,” I said.


I had to do it. I had no choice.


“I’ll be right out!” I shouted.


Big Brother escaped.


She may have saved you this time,” Buttermilk Bread said, “but don’t think you’re off the hook for good. There will come a time when even she can’t save you. When that day comes, you’re mine. And don’t forget, if you know what’s good for her, you best not mention any of this. You wouldn’t want to break her heart, right?”


“I’ve got nothing to lose,” I said, calling her bluff.


“Oh, is that so?”


“In fact, why don’t I go tell her right now.”


“You wouldn’t?”


“Try me.”


“Don’t do it. Let’s keep this hush-hush.”


“Only for a favor,” I said.


“What kind of favor?” she asked.


“You’ll know when the time comes....”


“Fine,” she sighed.


We shook on it.


Got her. Hehe.


I grabbed my clothes and got dressed. She did the same. I reminded her not to forget her glasses.


“Thanks,” she said.


I offered her a hug. Surprisingly, she took it. She squeezed hard. I reciprocated. She gave me a peck on the cheek. Not sure why, but I smiled. It just happened. It all just happened. I unlocked the door. We both took one last glance at one another. We both knew this wouldn't be the last time—


#


Buttermilk Bread and I rejoined the others. There were bodies spread out all over the floor and couches. Few were still standing. Hanging by a thread, as they say. It was getting late. I decided to throw in the towel for the night.


“Let me walk you out,” she said.


“Thanks,” I told her.


We made our way through the hallways, down the steps, and to the front of the apartment complex. My ride was waiting. We stopped a few feet from the white rapist van.


“So, what went on in the room?” she asked.


Just talking,” I said.


“Okay, good. Thanks again, for coming.”


“It’s always a pleasure.”


“Talk to you soon.”


“See you.”


#


In what felt like a hyper-jump, I was home. The driver pulled up to the driveway. Parked the car. He got out. Opened my door.


“Rest easy,” the driver said.


I got out.


Driver took off.


Climbed in bed.


Eyes wide shut.


Rest easy, I thought

 
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CHRIS MARDIROUSSIAN

In 2018, Chris Mardiroussian won First Prize in the Cinema Italian Style Film Festival (sponsored by the prestigious American Cinematheque in Los Angeles) for his short film entitled IL BREAKUP, which he co-wrote and produced. In 2017, he co-wrote a collection of poetry entitled HONESTY. LOVES. CRUELTY. He has also worked on several independent films such as "Friends in High Places" (2021), nominated for Mexico City’s International Cannabis Film Festival, "The First Color" (2020), won the Disability Issues Award, and "The Ties that Bind Us" (2019), won the Gold Award for Independent Shorts. His work has appeared in Bloom Magazine, BOMBFIRE, Ice Lolly Review, Maythorn Magazine, Perfumed Pages, Pocket Baby, Soul Talk Magazine, Sunstroke Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Glendale, California.