His lips smelt of stale red wine. His torso, though dark meat, proved tough to my probing fingertips. His earlobes were soft, but he had dabbed a strong temple-like scent, maybe a Hindu cologne, in their proximity and this repelled my intentions. There was little meat on his wrist and ankle. His buttock hairs curled like those of a bucolic beast, and smelt as musty as their cheeses. His sausage looked redder and rawer than ever. I took hold of it, yet procrastinated for the harder I squeezed, the more distinctly I detected a heartbeat inside and pondered whether or not I should club it first with a dough roller.

He placed himself on the hob, one hairy foot on the worktop, the other in an open drawer. Before I knew it, the raw sausage was forced into the depths of my throat. Gagging, I struggled to pull my head back up, but he obstinately pushed it back down. He swung his hips in a way for it to detach and slide on its own down to my stomach. I turned my head in the nick of time, only to receive it like a spoon of baby food in the cheek. It was the worst predicament of my life. I didn’t really want it anymore. There was nothing tasty about it at all. Nothing to make such a big fuss about.

With a groping hand, I switched the hob on high. My stomach growled at the smell of his buttock hairs warming. I was relieved to know I was normal.

“Take it, take it, it’s yours,” he claimed, in that diabolic trance I knew too well.

I deferred my aim, gently sucking out a drop of juice here and there, while waiting for the hob to get hot enough to grill at least the skin.

“Yes, yes, get ready, get ready to swallow it,” he advised considerately, for it was about to disconnect.

Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for something frightful to happen. I rolled my eyes up at Professor Ranji. He was sitting there, his eyes shut, his mouth open, panting like a dog locked up in a car, pinching and turning his own breasts like he were fine-tuning a transistor radio. And I leaning forward as though I were worshipping him. The hairs on his body had lost their fluff, totally flattened by his sweat. The linoleum floor was a mess, apples and oranges had run away into the corners, relish and mustard stains gave it the look of a dirty plate.

Eventually, Professor Ranji noticed there was less activity on my behalf. He gave my hair a few brutal tugs as an incentive. That is when he let out a scream that was so loud, it joined the scream of every newborn babe, of every jungle cry, of every animal since the dawn of life ever to be unwillingly eaten. I was overtaken by a sudden rush of gastric juices when the sausage was plucked out of my mouth. Professor Ranji rolled on the linoleum floor, screaming.