Vinny And The Roast Beef Curtains

Vinny And The Roast Beef Curtains

Some of you Toy with Mes might remember from last week’s post that I was going to work on my first smutty novel about my dreamboy, Vinny, the deli manager over at the Super Stop & Shop where I do my groceries. But before I share with you the juicy details of my turbulent relationship with Vinny that have, shall we say, inspired my meatiest fantasies,  there’s something you guys don’t know about me.

I rather like Italian men (my husband is Polish and Syrian. We don’t need to talk about it). I might have hinted toward my attraction  in the story I wrote about my turn ons and how I love that Tony Soprano bada-bing swagger.

Nobody does it better than an Italian Stallion.


My first boyfriend was Italian.  He had mob connections, you know. Everyone in 11th grade said so. One day we were out for a walk together and a black BMW with tinted windows (which are illegal around here, so that makes them seem even more nefarious) pulled up to us, the window went down slowly, and all I could see was a pair of eyes when a man’s voice said “Oh. Get in the car. We’re goin’ for a little ride.” and so we  got in and I was really scared and I thought we were going to be whacked, but it turned out to be my boyfriend’s Uncle Augustus.  He wanted to take us out for donuts. I feel really bad about peeing on his back seat.

Anyway, that might be where my thing for the Bada-bing started.  Lord, I was a whore for that boy.  And then there was Vito who I’ve told you about before. Clearly.  I have a history, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to know that I was immediately interested in having an affair sampling Vinny’s meat.

It started a while back when my then two-year-old asked for some “cheese please” and Vinny The Italian Stallion burst onto the scene wielding his mighty slicing machine.  And he was all “wha’ can I get fa’ you today, sweehot?” (SWOON) And then I was all “SHOW ME YOUR HARD SALAMI” because there he was in all his glory, bada-binging away with his muscles and his tattoos and his Italian-ness and his meat products and I lost complete control.

Serve me up a hot plate of that saucy ziti and meatballs if you know what I’m saying.

That was the first of our weekly  meetings and I don’t mind telling you that my previously schlubby mom-running-errands in yoga pants and sneakers got replaced with the finest push- up bra Victoria’s Secret had to offer, and a pair of lookatmyass skinny jeans.  I also don’t mind telling you that prior to my meeting Vinny, we weren’t really deli meat people.  I’d buy a little something every so often, but because of Vinny, I started buying things like Olive Loaf and Mortadella.  I don’t even know what those things are, but I bought them because they were there and Vinny was touching them.  GOD.

As I drove to the store each week, I’d have visions of us together just like a couple on the cover of a romance novel…the wind from the overhead vents delicately stroking my heaving bosom, his long pepperoni stick pressed up against my leg, the number 69 appearing on the “now serving customer number” sign above us.

And I know he felt the same way because he’d say very suggestive things to me like “is that thick enough for ya’ honey?” (huhuhuhuhhhh he said it’s thick!) and “You have a great day now doll!” which obviously meant, “I wish I could fuck you right here on the torpedo rolls.”

But it’s not all hearts and flowers or happy bologna ponies or whatever, you guys.  Oh no, no. Vinny liked to toy with me sometimes in his careless, bad boy, Tony Soprano of the Delicatessen way.

I’d go to the counter, he’d be there, my number would come up, I’d feel my face getting hot and the bow chica wow wow would start playing in my head as Vinny turned his attention to me, and then he’d say something devastating and cruel to me like “What can I get for you today ma’am?”

Bow chicka woooorrrrriiiiiiiippppppppp!

He’d called me ma’am.

And it would throw me into a tailspin, and I had thought there was something Very Special between us, and then he’d treat me like I was just another housewife buying cheese.

Oh Vinny, say it isn’t so!  Tell me you still want to throw me down on the pita bread and toss my chicken salad!

Our relationship got even more turbulent after I got pregnant.

I’d drag my fat ass into the store and he’d still say sweet things to me like, “sure thing doll,” and sometimes he would hold up his meat and ask  “how’s that for ya’ honey?” and I’d wet my pants and we’d be all hot and heavy with the meat this and meat that and then all of a sudden he would hand my order over to someone else and I’d be all “what did I do, Vinny?  PLEASE! TALK TO ME! VINNY! DON’T DO THIS!!!”

Normally, I would understand because Vinny is the Deli Manager and he’s a very important man who cannot spend his whole day shamelessly flirting with me, but then do you know what  he said?

Somebody take care of my girl here before she goes into labor.”

Oh my god. Vinny called me “fat,” you guys.

And I tried to focus on the fact that he said I was his girl which clearly must have meant he wished the baby was from the provolone of his loins or, or, whatever but I knew.

Vinny didn’t want me anymore and my delicatessen fantasies turned to ordinary grocery shopping excursions.  Sure, I still see Vinny from time to time, but the magic is lost forever.


But don’t cry for me.  I’ve moved on.

Every time Joseph over at the Shell station offers to put his pump in my hole, I tell him to fill me up and I know he knows that I know what we’re really talking about and it ain’t gasoline, you guys.

So do you guys have any super sexy fantasies about the people in your neighborhood?  Please tell me you have some or I’ll feel like a Desperate Housewife and we really don’t want that do we?

Toy With Me About Toy With Me


  1. This was hilarious! However, please take this as constructive criticism: names in direct address are set off by commas, as in

    My god, Vinny, how could you be so cruel?
    Hey there, doll.

    Hope I've helped and keep on writing. :)

    • there are as many rules about when to use commas as there are when not to use them.

      if a comma can be eliminated without a loss of clarity then is it necessary?

      might be something to bring up with old ernie hemmingway…

  2. Alex K.S. says:

    Last spring I was insanely lusting after my classics professor. He had an accent, and a lisp, and I think he might have been gay (okay, flaming), but the way he talked about sex in the antiquities, mmmm.

    Now I just shamelessly flirt with the boy at the biofuel gas station. Might I add that I don't use biofuel in my car?

  3. Yeah, my mom’s boyfriend’s son? Sexy. So. Sexy. All hot and airforce-ey with a gorgeous smile, and…he’s married and just had a baby.


    Plus, that’d be like, almost incest. Except that…we’re not blood related. So…we could technically get it on, but…

    it would be a little awkward. Something for the pornies out there to drool over, I guess.

    Not that he’d tap me, he’s like, not into me like that

    But I see the way he looks at me…ba-da-bing!

    (In my dreams.)

    Oh, I also have a huge crush on this AMAZING guy named Joe, who is so sexy but is….gay.

    FUCK. WHY?!

  4. Love it, and I have one that I blogged about a few years ago .. not sure if you want other blogs solicited on yours, but I’ll add it in case you don’t care …

  5. Dahlin’ you th’ best. You know it! This was hysterical, and I can sooooo relate. Sometimes, the life in the mind is the very, very most top-notch. Top grade loin, probably. Though maybe that’s not in deli, but at the butcher’s counter. Perhaps check him out next? xxx’s to ya.

  6. I have decidedly UN-hot neighbors. Most of them single moms of what seem like a million kids. The downstairs neighbor is one of the scariest women I’ve ever encountered.

    I’m a tich disappointed that there is not Latino Heat around the ‘hood… it seems that most of the guys live about 4 to 6 to an apt. and play some disturbing mariachi-hiphop fusion.

  7. Before the only local coffee house closed I had a thing for the one guy who worked there. Long black hair always in a bandana. Extremely flirty at times. He was the tallest guy I had ever seen so I was curious to see if the package fit the height. Talk about blushing every time I saw him! It’s all I could think about when we would talk. I would hang out at the coffee house every weekend in hopes that he was working. Oh man I would love to find out if every part of him is tall.

  8. Okay, this was great. Meat + sex were clearly meant to be written about together.

  9. Probably the guy at the Jiffy Stop who changes my oil for me. I seem to get him all the time. He’s tall, lanky, brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, muscle-y, and he’s got this smirk. A smile that makes me think he’s mentally having sex with me already. Oh, yeah…there’s some good ones of him rolling around in my brain. :)
    An oil thumbprint smear right on my bra? Oh hells yes.

  10. Damn you’re funny girl. Thanks for the laugh!

  11. i love having a hot neighbor.

    if you’re reading this, you know who you are.


  12. Peppermint Patty says:

    You got some Prime + chuckles here.

  13. Robert here with another Guy’s perspective… I know, sit down already….

    If Vinny couldn’t pick up on the innuendo that you were volleying over that stainless steel counter, he’s either gay or dead inside. I mean, come on. He should have been offering to carry your bags to your car for a backseat romp. Must be some kind of hairy-armed blockhead.

    Fantasies… Hmm… I have a little thing for my neighbor’s wife that would never result in anything more than a few knuckle-children in the drain of my shower. I live in a very small town and they are one of only about four African-American couples within 20 miles, but she is absolutely gorgeous. She’s about 12 years my senior; great body; beautiful personality. I’m betting an absolute wildcat in bed.. RAWR! Plus, I’ve never been with a black chick, so… Bonus!

  14. Dear Redhead says:

    Are those melons or….what…in the deli case?

    My deli doesn’t have anything like that. Just sayin’. Whoa.

  15. Yes! There is a guy who lives in this precinct of townhouses I call home. And he’s not just a guy, he’s some kind of Marine or Navy SEAL or something special forces-ey. But then I saw him at the pool with his gorgeous Hawaiian wife and they were all nice and talking to my son and buying him ice cream and acting all MARRIED and NICE and now … my panties won’t just fall off. I have to coax them a bit.

  16. LindsayDianne says:

    This post was just too funny, though I do hate the term meat curtains, so I ALMOST skipped it just for that.
    Lucky for both of us my curiousity is ridiculously hard to curb.

    I freaking love mortadella.
    But I am italian too, as much as I am anything!

  17. THIS… is why I joined the Crissy fanclub.
    I <3 you.

  18. Ladies form a line ’cause Champagne and Benzedrine is dishing out some beef!

  19. ?? Are you trying to imply that there are people in RI (other than tourist that got lost on their way to the Cape) that don’t have mob connections?

    ‘Cause that’s just crazy talk.

  20. GREAT post!

    Is it wrong that dirty talk like that is so hot because it’s so, well, dirty? Love it.

    And to get into the spirit: “I’ve got some premium British beef right here for ya, love!”

  21. I find it hard to believe he could resist you in that lovely purple frock! Don’t worry, there’s plenty of roast beef in the sea. Wait. What?

  22. i may not be italian, but i can toss the fuck out of a chicken salad.

    as you well know.


  23. Do you watch Sex and the City? Have you ever seen the episode with Maranda and the hot dog outfit man? Or something? Where she wants to hump it???

  24. Rachel – I’m disappointed she didn’t draw nipples on them.

  25. Bow chicka woooorrrrriiiiiiiippppppppp!
    Best eva!

    Those are some huge boobies!