Mmm…Crunchy…
I’ve mentioned before that I used to work in a hotel during my late teens. I’d do any odd jobs they asked me, varying from gardening to bar work (under age at the time) to waiting to washing pots & pans in the kitchen.

One Christmas, they threw on a free party for all the staff, from the lowest dogsbody (Me), up to the Maître’D and the owners.

The only downside was that we had to prepare all the food ourselves. And, being dogsbody, I didn’t get near any of the fun cooking side; I was Chief Butterer of Bread for the sarnies.

We had a little production line going, someone chopping tomatoes, someone grating cheese, someone mixing prawns with Rose Marie sauce, someone dealing with the ham & mustard and so on.

The guy grating the cheese was one of our gayest, campest, most disgusting waiters. Forever regaling us with the sordid details of his filthy sex life. The married men he’d fucked, the BDSM clubs he went to. He was the person who first introduced fisting to my delicate, as then innocent, life. (As a concept, I hasten to add, he didn’t take me roughly in the store cupboard* or anything).

The party came around that evening. The beer and wine flowed, the food was consumed. Everything was going swimmingly.

And then, while I was just polishing off my fourth or fifth cheese and tomato sandwich of the night, drunkenly, my gay waiter friend approached me and whispered ‘Oh, I meant to tell you earlier, I lost the ends of two finger nails in the cheese I was grating, so don’t eat any. I wouldn’t have bothered to mention it, but I was fist fucking John in the store cupboard** earlier, so they may not have been clean’

I moved on to the sausage rolls after that, I mean, what could he possibly have done to ruin the sausages…?

*Not a euphemism

**A euphemism.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 7 Aug 2009, 12:12, Reply)