The fridge didn’t have the food in to facilitate a fry up: no bacon, no sausage, no mushroom, no tomato. You decided to compromise and have a fried egg sandwich. I placed a frying pan on the gas hob and lit it, hearing the click, the phut, of the fire catching. I poured olive oil into the heat and watched as it started to warm up, move about the uneven surface of the pan, spit against something, some remnant that hadn’t been properly cleaned off. I grasped the handle in my right hand and, lifting the pan, tilted it gently from side to side, spreading a thin layer of hot oil across the surface. Once flat again, I slammed an egg on the rim and peeled open the shell, dropping the liquid, almost seminal, onto the circle of heat. It spread out, forming a non-linear edge as it cascaded across the oil, flashes of white immediately beginning to show, at the edge first, through twirls of slightly more opaque liquid to the yolk. Which sits, proud, aloof, a dome on top of boiling foundations. I turned away for a moment and placed two slices of uninspiring Warburtons into the white, plastic toaster. Which probably cost less than my pants.

The bread entombed in its upright, mechanised grill, I returned to the egg and watched as the white became a solid colour, a block of pure, virginal liquid – its transformation from a sticky, gloopy mess to a flat, edible, one-tone object almost complete. I’d timed this all wrong, I’d realised that minutes ago. I turned down the heat, aware that soon the underside would start to turn black. I watched the oil spitting from the edges of the solidifying pool as it began to curl, began to bubble, began to… began to complete.

I took a large gulp of apple juice, found the Heinz Ketchup and put a plate on the work surface next to the white, gas cooker, ready to receive. A moment’s wait and the toaster released its load; I retrieved the bread and placed both sides flat on the plate, squeezed a glob of sauce onto each and spread it evenly with a knife. Taking a fish slice, I transferred the hot egg onto the toast and folded the leaves around it to form a sandwich. I sliced through the middle, cutting open the yolk, a red, white and yellow kaleidoscope of gluttony revealed in the sandwich’s heart. The bright liquid dripped into a pool in the centre of the plate, and once I’d deposited the frying pan in the sink and turned off the gas, I sat down at the kitchen’s wooden table and messily attacked my breakfast.

The yolk and the ketchup covered my fingers, my face, my lips, my chin, a splash on my cheeks. Preparing and consuming this simple, rustic, provincial meal was the closest to a seduction and satiation I’d come in a long time. I hadn’t gotten anything sticky or solid or wet on the sides of my face since the last time I gave my girlfriend (or was it Rachel last?) head. It was odd, familiar, feeling the thick, viscous liquid escaping from between my teeth, running off my eager tongue and around my mouth… it was…. I found myself, there, at the kitchen table, sticking my tongue inside the sandwich, twisting it 90 degrees, pretending that the soggy, savoury bread on either side was a pair of abrasive labia, that the soft but solid (plasticy, slightly overcooked) flat of egg between them was an engorged clitoris… I found myself, there, at the kitchen table, simulating cunnilingus on a fucking fried egg sandwich, my mouth aware that cunts don’t feel or taste like this, but my hands clamped either side of the bread and my mind’s eye dreaming up the legs of the potential fantasy woman this could be on either side of my head, soft stomach, gentle breasts, flowing hair, her hands gripping my ears and grinding me into her ketchup loins. Creeping to life, and held in place by my boxers and the exercise shorts I was wearing, my erstwhile-moribund cock twisted, jumped, climbed, back into action. My tongue rotating around a flap of egg, my chin covered in yolk and sauce and rubbing against the corner of the bread, my erection suddenly squashed in its expansion by the thin gap between my thigh and the bottom of the table. Hard there, harder than I’ve been for a while, the longest I’ve been without coming for years, but I can’t help myself, can’thelpmyself from licking and gyrating and getting my face just fucking filthy with the thick, savoury liquids. Sauce, sauce, why does no one ever call pussyjuice (pussyjuice?) fucking sauce? My throbbing penis is loving this, is fitting into the gap, solid, up, complete, between my body and the flat wood above. I move slightly, teasingly slide my arse backwards on the chair and a rumba of fucking ecstasy passes through every fucking fibre of my body – sexual pleasure, it has been far too, far too, far too-

-MY TONGUE IS CIRCLING THE CLITORIS LIKE I’M REALLY TRYING TO BRING THE EGG WOMAN OFF, and I’m sliding back and forth on the varnished seat and know, just know, that I’m about to spew but it’s been so long and the egg just tastes so good and the memory of tonguing pussies, twats, cunts, fannies, lady gardens, pleasure gardens, sex gardens, fucking VAGINAS thunders from my mind to my mouth to my balls to my head. You’re speeding up, both ends, to an outsider it would appear you were fucking the table, but both of your hands are up, holding the sandwich together, and you can feel it, you can feel the release getting closer and closer and nearer and nearer and soon you’ll, soon you’ll, soon you’ll just feel like the b- the b- the b-

You pump out so much semen you’re almost impressed. It’s covered the front of your shorts by the time you’ve pulled away from the table, and there’s some dripping, glistening, from the underside of the woodwork. But you don’t care. You feel fucking great. Your penis twitches, drips, gloops, squeezes out a few more dollops into your pants and your whole body tingles, feels electric. You’d love to be tickled, or have someone breathe slowly, gently, across your skin. You miss contact, fuck I miss physical contact.

You eat the egg sandwich, feeling cannibalistic. I’ve lost most of the yolk, licked off a lot of the ketchup. It’s soggy, messy, ruined, destroyed, torn apart by my tongue. I smile at that thought, but not in a way I feel comfortable with explaining.

I put the plate in the dishwasher and wipe the underside of the table with a damp piece of kitchen roll, an expanding pool of come on the front of my shorts. I’ll have to wash them, I realise, with a sigh. But first I have to wash my face. And then I have to wash my thighs.

Scott Manley Hadley owns a dog and blogs at Triumphofthenow.com. His writing focuses on mental health and identity issues, but he also produces filth. He tweets @Scott_Hadley.

Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com