“There are races and then there are races. And without a doubt, the Indy 500 is the race that I’ve always wanted to attend. And now, to be driving the Corvette Pace Car... this is going to be unbelievable. ”
I watch. That’s my job. I watch him from afar. I feel the heat of the lithium as my hands grapple around the camera; I imagine it’s his engorged prick. I focus the lens around his girth, filling the frame with his taut, bronzed figure. The supermarket aisles disappear behind him in a blur. There is only Guy Fieri and his tatted turkey burger. One by one, each overhead light falls away. My world shrinks as he works over the hot stove in the middle of a supermarket we rent for to film in four weeks out of the year. The contestants, the judges, and the crew, they all blink away like tracers of light after staring at the sun. Guy is approaching the mountaintop and I am here to capture this moment, his moment. I want to zoom the camera infinitely into his groin, through his faux-denim khakis, down into his elastic foreskin, dive through his urethra and explore his insides. I want to swim inside of his semen and blood, and feel his hearty growl as he shakes. I want to see the synapses that fire for another Flavortown zinger, or the way his brain expels dopamine when he curls his fingers into a bowl of jalapeño corndog batter. But I can’t. I can watch, though. That’s my job. I’m watching his brow as it furrows; the sizzle of hot, dry meat popping beneath him. Guy picks up a bottle of fancy ketchup and pretends to jack it off all over the pretzel buns he has cut open. We’ll have to edit that out, but I’ll save the clip for my own collection.
Our director gives the 30 second cue for commercial break and Guy seamlessly winds the segment down— but it’s also my own cue. I begin to time myself: 30 seconds to climax. I keep the frame stoic as I retreat into my fantasy.
My eyes flutter shut.
There’s something wrong. The ratings are slipping. Iimagine him telling the crew to clear out— Don, Ty, Rami, Tara, Jen, Marcus. Something is on his mind. As I bend down to pack away the equipment he stops me, kicking the bag some inches away.
“Not you,” he looms above me, his shadow spreading over my form. I’ve stumbled onto my knees trying to stuff the mic into the case. The supermarket has cleared out of any other cast or crew. There is only the aisles of food as silent witnesses. My blood pressure drops, a cold sweat begins to form across my skin. I can see the valleys of his chest as his flame-decorated button-up falls across his gorgeous, tankard body.
“Me?” I squeak. I’m still, waiting for him to push me on the floor and ask me if his #6 Carolina Firehouse Barbecue Sauce is hot enough or if I need more heat. “Do you need something from me, Mr. Fieri?”
He grabs a bag of Chipotle Thin Tostitos off the shelf and throws them at me, they land three feet away. “Open those.”
I don’t ask questions, but fumble on the ground, scurrying like an awful rodent to the bag. The crinkling of the plastic fills whatever gaping silence the moment has produced. With a “pop” a surge of spicy, smoky aroma wafts out of the bag and into my holes. I look up at my master, frightened.
“Trash can brisket nachos,” he demands, or asks, I can’t tell.
“What?”
“Tell me about my trash can brisket nachos.”
"I— I don’t even know.” It’s a lie. I know exactly what are in Guy’s Trash Can Brisket Nachos. Tortilla chips. Nacho Cheese Sauce. Jalapeños. Crema. Pico de gallo. Burnt brisket ends. Chipotle BBQ Sauce. He knows it, too. I want to smirk but the game feels too good. I’m swelling and I can see a spire forming in his pants. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fieri.”
He begins to walk away from me, but I can’t let him. I can’t let him do this to me. Not again.
“Wait.”
He doesn’t. He can’t, and we both know it. So I begin to crawl on my hands and knees, chasing after him. I’m huffing; huffing his scent, huffing for breath. Gasping as he tries to leave. I don’t want to give into him but I must. I must give into Guy Ramsay Ferry.
“Tortilla chips,” I whimper. He keeps pace, the distance growing. I gulp as much air as I can to quiet my racing heart. “GUY FIERI’S TRASH CAN NACHOS. Tortilla chips. Nacho cheese sauce. Jalapenos!” I’m screaming at his back, I’m screaming for him to stop, for him to come. His shoulders perk, I see the side of his face as he barely turns. “CREMA. PICO DE GALLO,” there are hot tears cascading down my face, forming rivers on the linoleum floor where I rest my hands, pooling between my fingertips, “Burnt brisket ends.” Guy begins to turn around, locking eyes with me. I almost can’t finish. “Chipotle. Chipot—,” I fall, face pressed onto the floor, watching his boots step toward me, “Chipotle,” I whimper. He is above me now. I turn onto my back, the overhead lights heating my capillaries, my skin bright red beneath my clothes. I’ve undone my zipper and removed my cock from my jeans. For the first time in 3 seasons, I catch him by surprise. “Chipotle BBQ sauce.”
I come. Back to reality.
We’re finished taping for today. Someone high-fives and the slap jolts me back into my body.
I’ve hid my engorged dick behind as much equipment as I can, praying no one catches me. I’m alone, in the corner of the set, picking scraps of his Tatted Turkey Burger out of the discarded food bin. I shove some bits of it into my pockets for later, some into my mouth for now.
There’s a roar of laughter but I don’t look. I have to center myself. I have to feel the semen and precum dry inside my boxer shorts before I can face them. It’s still sticky, moist. Clinging inside my pubic hair. I couldn’t watch him now; shame is with me.
Instead, someone is watching me. I spin around.
It’s him. The rest have gone; dismissed. Instinctively, I turn away from him. I can hear him softly laugh. I feel a pressure against the small of my back. Something firm, round, digging into the cotton. I feel his hand push my spine, folding me halfway into the food bin I had been digging through. I gasp. He holds me down.
“What are you looking for in there?” Guy tugs on my jeans, having undone the buckle in a single flick. He pulls them down to my trembling thighs and begins to rouse my asshole by sticking his thumb against my brown star, jabbing lightly. “What are you doing, digging through the Mayor of Flavortown’s garbage?”
I inhale the discarded day’s worth of food. There’s a bandaid from where a contestant cut herself yesterday. I inhale deep. The scent blood excites me. It’s dark. I can’t see anything but vague contours. Using only my mouth and tongue I grab a piece of the turkey patty and force myself up, turning around to meet the Mayor face to face.
I spit the mouthful of food on him. Chunks of old, warm meat drenched in donkey sauce spray over his face, getting caught in his facial hair. He rips open my shirt with his name on it. The buttons fly off.
“SMC,” Guy groans, “SMC. Give me it.”
This is one I haven’t heard before. I don’t know what to say so I ravage my fingers into his mouth as Guy gags, spittle running down his chin. Suck my cock?
"What’s SMC? I don’t know what that is,” I demand, “tell me what SMC means, Mayor.”
Guy removes my dongle from the slit in my boxers with care, holding it over the bin of food. He flicks the head. “You want in Flavortown? You have to give me the SMC.”
The head of my cock is sore from rubbing against my pants all day but it doesn’t matter. I have him now. I have him and he has me in his palms. I’m close.
“SMC, show me that SMC.”
He takes off his thumb-ring and tries to size it against my prick as a makeshift cock-ring, all the while maintaining eyes with me, staring past me, through me. “Super melty cheese.”
Those three words are enough to push me over the edge, but it takes everything I have not to erupt right there. I want to drag it out. I want to go off-roading in Flavortown. I want to go mudding. I want to explore the quarry, to touch the bottom and not surface. I want to die in Flavortown, completely. “I’m gonna show you. I’m gonna give it to you.”
“Give the Mayor that super melty cheese, come get that Key to Flavortown.
I’m coming, Guy.