Take Scat!

Every spike of his spiky hair was spiked to spiky perfection, held in place by the strongest mousse he could find, each strand ready to impale anything that may come near it. His poppy elbows were popped, needing only another 10 or 100 pops the rest of the day before he'd be confident they were all popped out. A dull Rodney Hampton jersey - his favorite player and the only fan Rodney Hampton probably ever had - hung off his bony shoulders and almost reached his knees. The lobster ravioli was thawed and sitting in the microwave, awaiting a nuking. Lettuce; tomato, cucumber, purple onion slices; and a quart of blue cheese dressing lounged in a large, wooden bowl, restless to be scarfed down.

Mark glanced around the kitchen once more, then turned his attention to the bowl in front of him, into which he hocked a slimeball of fresh snot. He giggled, then gloved his hands with the latex gloves he'd bought for the occasion. Slowly, he kneaded the dingleberries against the bottom of the bowl, churning them with his knuckles into a thick, brown paste. He dumped the gloves into the trash can and read the instructions on the box. Once the ingredients were pulverized together with a couple hundred thrusts of the handheld mixer, he spooned and smoothed them into the greased, glass baking pan, then set them in the pre-heated oven, dipping his finger deep into the mix once to taste his creation.

He stood up straight and stretched, swirling the cake mix against the roof of his mouth. He wanted to run upstairs and jerk off to relieve his aching boner but instead quickly put it under his waist band as the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, Bette smiled, her nostrils flaring. "Something smells great!" she said.

"Oh, I've got a little treat for you," said Mark. Then he leaned forward and stuck his smeared tongue in her mouth, at which she giggled and wrapped her arms around his lean waist to tighten their kiss.