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?



  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. 🙂

    • ken

      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.

    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. 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.

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