Recently, I’ve noticed that I’m not alone in my affinity for the foul mouthed, British chef Gordon Ramsay—specifically in his role in the country’s favorite restaurant makeover show, Kitchen Nightmares. Seeing a need, I’ve developed a letter to your potential lover that will assist him in creating that naughty-restaurant-owner-being-scolded heat that you’ve been too scared to ask for. Just print this out, give it to the lucky fella, and thank me later.
To Whom It May Concern:
Congratulations! If you’ve received this letter, It means that I’d like to be inserted by you! (exciting!) Before said insertion, though, I’d like to give you some tips that will help me reach my peak. I know that you probably have some killer moves that have worked in the past, but don’t you want to make this sexual encounter the best it can be? oh good.
Okay, first and foremost: Please speak to me in a British accent. This is crucial. And do not think that i want some cockney “goodday gov’nah!” British accent while you’re pumping your love-gun into my sauce-cove. I’m not some sort of freak. Please stick to Hugh Grant, Rupert Everett, or even a Beatle would work.
Second: Would you be opposed to dying your hair blonde? This is a bit more of a commitment, but I can throw in some extra ball play if you comply. If this is too much to ask, I’ve already procured a wig that will do the trick. It may be a little itchy, but I’m sure my tits will be able to relieve that, right? *winky face
Third: Chef’s coat? Just do it, okay.
Fourth: I’ve put together some phrases I’d like you to yell in my direction while we make sweaty, skin slapping sounds. It would help if you found a really angry place to yell at me from. Did one of your parents ever die? Or were they absent while you were growing up? Conjure up some sort of backwards Peter Pan rage thoughts and fling some of these my way.
Maybe while you give me mouth pleasure you look up at me and say:
“It’s not a crab cake. It’s a crap cake. Because if I eat anymore, I’ll be busy crapping for the next hundred and five years.”
“You’re fucking delusional. It’s mushy. It’s watery.”
“Look! It’s fucking rotten, you fucking idiot! IT’S ROTTEN!!”
If we get into a doggy style sort of position, you can get my attention with a volatile”
“HEY PANINI HEAD, LISTEN TO ME!”
“You’re a donkey.” (I’ve always thought a spank here would be a nice touch. Your call!)
If i turn around and look at you, you can get me riled up with a:
“FUCK OFF!!! Who the fuck are you to turn around and tell me when you work like a PIG?!!! YOU FRENCH PIG!!!”
It’ll be tough for me to hold off, but when you think it’s time for us to climax (TOGETHER!), one of these would be more than appropriate:
“SHUT IT DOWN!”
“Hold On, Hold On. Let me finish!! Let me finish!! You put your fucking hands up here and listen to me. YOU RUN A fucking HOLE OF A KITCHEN!!! FUCK YOURSELF!!!”
I have faith that if you follow these instructions, we’ll be able to enjoy each other’s bodies and exchange juices to the fullest. Thanks, again. Can’t wait to “cook” with you!
[your name, to make it seem more personal]
Everyone deserves a little Gordon in her every now and again.
New party game:
AWKWARD STRIPPER SONG
ARRIVE. Two minutes late. I know that no one cares, but I do. Why did I snooze so many times! Getting to work early sets a good example. BUT, also———-fuck it.
Okay! GO TIME! Look alive, Nicole! I should do some “work” now, but I really need a little bit of bagel. No one likes a grouchy barista! Un-toasted bagels are so dumb. NOTE TO SELF: Be 10 minutes late and wait for them to toast it. You were already 2 minutes late, what’s 8 more? Bleck. That’s enough dumb bagel— just enough to soak up all the caffeine I’m about to put into my body.
Paul offers me some coffee. I really shouldn’t because I still need to dial in my espresso. But, it’s nice to have someone to talk to up here, so I drink. Paul always has great banter. He makes me forget about my dry bagel. Today’s going to be a good day!
This new blog feels good— like a long stretch after a siesta.