Mel ... and only for Mel ... (nmbMel, I'm serious) ...
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The can caught my eye from across a semi-crowded convenience store in Southeast Portland, its aluminum skin reflecting flashes of light like the best of J. J. Abrams lens flares. I approached cautiously, reverently, seeking to make a good – no, not good, great – a great impression upon meeting this majestic wonder for the first time.
A few steps later, I stood before the refrigerated case, mesmerized. This can of Monster beverage was all that it promised. The decidedly unsubtle “M” logo was artfully dressed in red and blue curved stripes, which had a slimming effect on the bare aluminum can. Mr. Gronkowski’s signature along the top, just underneath the rim, whispered of untold delights yet to come. The image of The Gronk poised to tackle and take down all opponents provoked a stirring of my own beastly nature.
I stood transfixed.
Trembling with desire (and perhaps a slight Saturday morning hangover), I opened the door to the case. A choir of angels, led by a silvery-voiced Richard Sherman, gave soft hosannas in tribute as I reached for the can. A frisson of delight leapt from fingertips to my very toes when my fingertips first caressed the skin of the can (even though I carefully avoided touching the engraved image of the sainted Gronk). A deep wave of pleasure fired down my nerves to my toes, rebounding to my nether regions, and finally settling into a warm cloud of anticipation centered just beneath my stomach. I lifted the can, gazing upon it, and silently whispered my desire to submit to the wonders of its contents.
I was suddenly overcome with intense want and desire. I felt driven: I must have this Gronk inside me. Now.
I dashed to the front counter, the can of Gronk held firmly, lovingly, in my hand. I threw a five dollar bill down on the counter as I ran out the store. To the perplexed clerk, I shouted a simple “Gotta run! Keep the change!”
I dove into my car and slammed the door behind me. Finally, we were alone.
And the Gronk knew it. Small, dewey beads of sweat began emerging on his silvery exterior. He called to me, and I to him. I popped the top of the can with a single, energetic finger, and the whoosh of exhalation catching me by surprise and sending a bolt of erotic energy to my very core.
Doubt overwhelmed me. Here, on the cusp of pleasure, I was stricken. Could I possibly handle this Gronk? Was my body truly ready? There was only one way to find out … .
In a frenzy of wild abandon, I gave myself over to the Gronk entirely. My upper lip gently cradled the top of the opening in the can, and then, with a small tip backwards, I felt it: that first gush of ice cold wonder, sliding and slipping over my teeth and tongue like an engorged Colorado river raging over rapids in early spring. It was … luxurious.
The taste was complex and completely satisfying, a surge of syrupy sweetness mixed with artisanal battery acid with subtle notes of apple, bubble gum, and pine resin. The gush of Gronk slammed into the back of my throat, coursing down my gullet to my very core. One gulp. Then another. Then a third before I hit my limit. My body was electrified, my heart pounding like the feet of a Patriots lineman clearing the way for Gronk on a slant route. And then, sweet, sweet denouement.
I removed the can from my mouth, emitting a gasp of overwhelming satisfaction. I was spent. Yet, the can of Gronk was still half full. Lovingly, tenderly, I placed it in the cup holder, assuring both of us that another round was yet to come once we both recovered.
I started the car, stepped on the clutch, and a few shifts later, we were both driving toward the horizon, wrapped in a soft haze of fulfillment like nothing I had ever experienced before.
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