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Chicken Spot

Their eyes met across a ... you know what, fuck it. They were outside, okay? They were outside. It was two in the morning and the Dinwiddy fire alarm had gone off, again. Some precious little fresher who had seen nothing of the world had attempted to boil an egg without water; accordingly, all they'd managed to create was an obnoxious smell and a cloud of smoke.

People poured out of the front doors and into the driveway, because they hadn't realised that it's much less hassle just to stay in the kitchen or hide in the shower when the fire alarm goes off. However, it worked out just fine for our two lovers, who bumped into each other as they exited. She was in a fluffy dressing gown and fluffy slippers; he was sporting thin pyjama shorts through which his sleepytime semi was ominously visible.

"Oh, sorry!", she said, as the two collided in the doorway.

He grunted and blinked blearily.

"ahjfksdsfjkl?", he mumbled.

She looked at him with an intense gaze of confusion and desire. He reminded her of Arabic writing - absolutely beautiful, but she didn't understand a fucking thing he was saying (all things considered, this was a much nicer simile than her last break up, when she herself had been compared to Arabic writing - "you're beautiful, but you mean nothing to me" - and the one before that when she'd been dating a Tory - "you're beautiful, but you've moved from right to left").

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't quite catch that."

He cleared his throat, waved his hand in the vague direction of Pentonville Road, and said,

"Do you wanna go to Chicken Spot?"

This was also incomprehensible, but in a different way. This time, she understood the words just fine, but she couldn't understand the sentiment.

"Um ... I'm a vegetarian", she said by way of explanation.

"That's okay. Nobody knows what they put in that stuff anyway, it's probably not even meat."

She considered this for a moment. Would she sacrifice her ethical principles for the sake of attention from a pretty boy? Yes, she decided, yes she would. After all, getting attention was the reason she'd gone vegetarian in the first place.

"Okay," she smiled, putting her arm through his, "let's go."

They walked into Chicken Spot. The walls were coated in a thin film of grease and despair.

He walked up to the counter, and perused the list of chicken items. This, he felt, was the perfect opportunity for some innuendo.

"Hi there," he said, "I'd like to order some legs, please. Long legs, if possible, with a nice firm bit of thigh."

He cast a glance at her. Her stomach leaped up into her ribcage.

"I'd also like a couple of breasts, please." He grinned at her. "Full, plump breasts, the kind I can really sink my teeth into. And a fried egg. I want to delicately lick the yolk until it opens up and bursts forth in a messy symbolic fashion. Thanks."

The man behind the counter was shocked. Nobody ever said "please" or "thanks" in Chicken Spot.

It was her turn. Not to be outdone, she marched up to the counter and said,

"I need a whole cock. I need a whole, full-size cock inside me, right now. You wouldn't believe how much meat I can fit in my mouth."

She turned to him, and flashed him a "how about that?" kind of look. She turned back to the counter.

"And some chips, please."

They stood and waited for their order, and while they waited, she reached down into his thin pyjamas and coaxed his sleepytime semi into a state of full alertness. She rubbed her hand up and down, up and down, to give him a taste of what would happen later that night when they would return to Dinwiddy.

However, when their order came, so did he. It turns out that it was neither the chicken nor the egg which came first, but the beautiful boy who looked like Arabic writing.

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