Saturday with Gwyneth

“Saturdays are always busy,” Gwyneth thought. She’s not wrong, with a day that starts with 47 minutes of silent meditation and a copper mug of hot water, and ends with a tablespoon of bee pollen and an hour of screaming into a pillow, she had a lot on her plate — no food though, of course. As she walked around her kitchen, running her hand across her white marble countertop, she thought of all of the day’s events. She had already dropped Apple and Moses off at their ancient cartography class, where she was careful to tiptoe around her friendship with Mario Batali to the other parents.
If she wanted to feel energized for her third yoga practice of the day, she needed to make a smoothie. She plugged in her chrome Vitamix and started gathering ingredients. First she grabs the vanilla mushroom protein powder. The jar is full and firm and she smiles to herself thinking about the last time she had her hands around something you could describe that way. She carefully arranged on the countertop the coconut oil, maca, ashwagandha, ho shou wu, and cordyceps — all of the tastiest foods. The jars were all new thanks to her grocery delivery man coming just this morning. His thick, tanned arms carrying the boxes full of dusts and roots she lives off of. Gwyneth remembers that triangle of skin exposed by the placket of his polo shirt, covered in coarse dark hair and glistening with sweat. It almost stared at her at her as she went to tip him and asked, “Do you have any smaller bills? I only have hundreds.” Thinking about his toned and tanned body, she started to get hot herself under her slim Calvin Klein cashmere sweater.
She took a deep breath and reached into her sub-zero fridge for the carton of almond milk. Its coolness was refreshing as she held it against her face. She normally only feels like this after bikram yoga or when someone brings up her musical performances in Country Strong. Something about James the grocery deliveryman excited her. He was broad and manly, and said interesting things like “job” and “rental apartment” and “food.” She began to imagine him touching her with his calloused hands, caressing her perfectly moisturized skin. Looking around her kitchen, she wished he would fill up more than just her pantry.
Now was time for the last smoothie ingredient, the perfectly selected dust from Moon Juice. Gwyneth considered calling her friend and Moon Juice president, Amanda Chantal Bacon to see which powder she would recommend for today, but she was afraid the call would wake Amanda’s son, Rohan. She also knew what she wanted — and needed. Not action dust or brain dust or spirit dust or beauty dust. No, today was the day for sex dust. Her skin felt hot, and her wine cellar — what she calls her vagina — tingled from excitement and from the recent steaming she treated herself to.
With her Vitamix full of earthly sustenance, she powered it on, pulsating the dusts and milks into a frothy treat. The whir of the machine sent shivers through her fingers and hands, up her toned arms and down through her body. She briefly considered mounting the appliance and riding it like a dressage horse, but she didn’t want to scratch the Carrara marble of the kitchen island. Then she remembered that in her “indulgence drawer” along with the pack of American Spirits, one saltine, and the 2013 People Magazine where she was named Most Beautiful Woman in the World, was her solid gold dildo. It was a $15,000 impulse buy she had forgotten about.
Gwyneth unzipped her size 00 jeans and slid her fingers under her Agent Provocateur silk thong. Maybe she had subconsciously put it on knowing it was grocery day and she’d have a brief brush with James. The thought of him sliding it off of her and tossing it across the kitchen onto the reclaimed wood table excited her. Despite her flush skin, racing heartbeat, and tingling nether-region, she was still as dry as that lone saltine cracker she told herself that she would one day eat. Thankfully, her Kia Optima-priced gold dick came with a sample of organic yam lube. She tore open the packet and slathered it all over the dildo. It was even edible, but she didn’t want to waste the calories.
Now Gwyneth was gliding it in and out of her — first slowly, then faster and faster. She thought of James lifting boxes of turmeric juice and carrying organic reusable tote bags full of shilajit resin and lipospheric mineralized vitamin b- complex packets. She continued thrusting the luxury penis inside her, her whole body trembling more than when she accepted her Oscar for Shakespeare in Love. She thought of him kissing down her taut abs and licking her pussy, using the classic method of moving his tongue all over her clit in the pattern of letters and spelling out “Meal Replacement Beverage.”
Her breathing quickened and she steadied herself with her other hand on the pulsing vitamix as she and the smoothie were both near finishing. Her flat chest heaved and her cheeks flushed as her thrusts grew more aggressive. “ACTIVATE MY CASHEWS!!” she screamed.
And just as she was about to come harder than she ever had before, Chris Martin entered the kitchen and asked, “Did you need something? I heard you yell for me.”
Gwyneth stopped, sighed, and said, “No, not for you, Chris. Never for you.”
He walked away sadly as she pulled the golden dildo out of her, knowing that this would be yet another day without pleasure.
She placed the dildo back in the drawer as she sipped her smoothie, and thought, “I deserve to have that American Spirit early this week.”
