An erotic fiction, sponsored by Quiznos
By Elliot Chan, Passionate Lover and Sellout
When he suggested that you both meet at the local Quiznos for dinner, you were surprised. After all, it’s one of the finest establishments you know. Sure, you often find yourself being frugal and going to Subway instead, but you get what you pay for. Mesquite, Honey Bacon Club, Prime Rib Peppercorn: the selection is endless, or perhaps you’re just indecisive—like your selection of men. Negative thoughts, go away, and think only of Quiznos today.
You arrive a bit early, a force of habit. The cute mustached high school student behind the counter smiles at you. You smile back. Don’t play these games, you tell yourself; he’s not the one you’re waiting for.
Sitting near the glass window by the door makes you feel like an animal in a zoo, people walking by glance at you. What are they thinking? Did they see how pretty you look? Did they see how desperate you are? What will he think of you when he enters? Tension is building, you want to flee, but it’s too late.
Your eyes and his connect like a laptop to Quiznos’ free Wi-Fi connection. “Come here often?” he asks as he embraces you with his strong, masculine arms, engulfing you with the scent of Tag body spray.
“Not often enough,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I always enjoy myself when I do.”
So this is how the courtship begins. As your sandwich is being made, you imagine the two of you lying on the flat bread and layering lettuce, tomato, cheese, and honey mustard all over your bodies. You lick your lips and look up to him. His eyes glow seductively; he might have just been reading your mind.
“Toasted?” the lost Mario brother employee asks.
“Always,” you answer with a wink. In your mind, they fought for your honourable hand using sandwich meat as weapons.
You take your sandwich, find a seat, and wait. He arrives moments later with a tender smile, just like the savory Black Angus Steak in his sandwich. “Hungry?” he asks, unraveling his meal with the meticulous dexterity of a certified sandwich artist.
“Starved,” you say while peeling back the wrapper clumsily. You take a bite, the crust crumbles, the meaty inners tear apart and the sauce dribbles down your chin. You wonder as you look up at him: can a man compare with a sandwich in bed? You’re compelled to ask, but you’ll find out soon enough. Toasted? Always.