Damn Cheeseballs!

GP Lane
GP Lane
Sep 9, 2018 · 5 min read

GP LANE

Damn Cheeseballs ruined my life; it’s that simple. I had it all; great life, really. I am… I mean, I was a food critic for a prestigious nationwide magazine and guested as a judge on countless competitive cooking programs. A positive review from me assured a worthy new eatery as the new “IN” spot. You know the place! The place that after my glowing review would see long lines, month-long waiting lists for a reservation and a word-of-mouth buzz that would drown-out any other hot-spot for miles around.

My lady… my ex, really… is at the core of my demise: metaphorically! I am most assuredly alive. I know this as fact because of the pain. Both physical and emotional pain; both are sure-fire tests that you still walk among the living. Although these days, I appear dead from my gray countenance, shabby clothes and my ability to walk down streets; streets where people once would recognize me, nod, say hello and notice me; at present, I am a ghost… a shadow… someone you walk past… someone you can see through; as if not there.

Estelle and I were first: co-workers (my copy editor), fast- friends, lovers, housemates and the final nail in that particular coffin: husband and wife. I wasn’t exactly smitten with Estelle at first, but I did like her no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point affect. I had no idea how cruel she could be; there is no better word to describe it. The wedding was a big, splashy event at a restaurant which would rather forget I was ever a patron, let alone, the man responsible for much of its success.

After the wedding, honeymoon, and three years of co-habitation I strayed… It would be easy to end it here and now. And yet, there is more to tell before I actually end it… Damn CHEESEBALLS!

We all have guilty pleasures; Cheeseballs happened to be mine. They’re actually disgusting; salty things that bear no resemblance to cheese, itself. I could go on ad-nauseum about cheese, for I do love and miss it so! As for those orange, chemical based snacks, I could not! I would never recommend them to anyone and never admitted to friends or colleagues that I even snacked upon them. It was something I did alone. And, if it weren’t for a smudge of orange dust on the cuff of my shirt, Estelle would never have known about my rather tame indiscretion. But she did know. She chided me often that she would expose me and my indulgence if I ever did her “dirty”. And I did. And in turn, she did.

I will be honest. It was not my particular “freak”, as in, “get your freak on” sex play. I’m rather old-school about sex, and place the desire of my playmate… wait… let me state it simpler: I used to be quite accommodating! Estelle was in the Hamptons for a girls’ weekend. I stayed in town. Judy, a sweet, petite blonde who worked as a copy-editor for a renown gourmet magazine, which will remain nameless, n’est pas?, breezed into my office with a simple request; a request that never, ever saw fruition; but would have, if it weren’t for those damn cheeseballs!

She had a bag of cheeseballs with her that she crunched and munched. She licked the orange residue off her small fingers and said, “Want one?” I scoffed at first; even pretended that my superior palate couldn’t tolerate even one! Hypocrite that I was, I even snatched the bag from her baby-pink painted fingernails to read the list of phosphates and other assorted chemicals that are housed in those nasty, crunchy things… they are not food; trust me, I know food: Not that anyone would trust my judgment these days!

I’ve stalled long enough… here goes. We went for a drink at a five-star bar attached to a world famous hotel. As I sipped my 30 year-old Scotch and she drank her Cosmopolitan, I stared at her cute little nose and sea-glass green eyes. She played with her hair with thoughtless ease. She picked at the salted nuts, ate the pecans first, then the cashews; leaving only the peanuts. I wanted none of it, and secretly longed for that poison known as cheeseballs; forevermore: Damn Cheeseballs! I was a tad infatuated and was stupid enough to suggest we go back to my place for a second cocktail. BIG Mistake! There were damn cheeseballs there. And, turns out; a devotee for them that went past what most would agree as normal consumption. And, with much regret, a Nanny-cam secreted in a plush-toy animal of Estelle’s that I had no idea was ever in our apartment.

One thing led to another… what a stupid phrase! And, she found the super-sized plastic barrel of damn cheese balls that I kept on the floor in the guest room, behind a skirted table. She spied them as she leaned over the daybed to take in the view of the East River. “Cheeseballs!” My guilt was as bright as the neon orange balls stuffed within the plastic container. “We must keep this a secret… my readers would be shocked… my editors would be appalled… I’d lose all credibility!”

She twisted off the lid and rolled one, like an odd ball of lipstick over her delicious lips. And, they were delicious, which had nothing to do with the chemical-cheese dust that tinted her pink lip gloss. It was her. Fresh, young, different from Estelle’s kisses, which were always pleasant… just not taboo! Then things got weird and I liked it. She, as the video supports, had a fetish. I never had one… I guess I’m just too lazy. Fetishes require work. However, I was an attentive sex partner so, I indulged. We indulged on more than those damn cheeseballs! She asked for me to do this and that with the balls and I obliged. I did things; things I had never imagined… and, never would have… I’m not wired that way! I said things… things that I still can’t believe I said… dirty things… things that I have never said before… things that have never crossed my mind! Stupid things that in the moment made Judy titter and giggle in that, ‘I’m a dirty, little, cheeseball lovin’ girl’ way.

To say that I did not enjoy this new, eccentric and oddly erotic sex play would be a lie. Besides, you can see for yourself (if you haven’t already!) the ecstatic expression, the odd smile, the devilish look in my eyes; It was all over the Internet and still is. They say, “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned.” I say, Estelle had every right to feel betrayed. She had every right to be furious… hurt… angry. She did not have the right to post it on: Facebook… and, Instant Message it, Twitter it and Instagram it for the whole world to see.

Damn Estelle! Damn Judy and her fetish! Damn Cheeseballs! All have damned me.

GP Lane

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GP Lane