The Cum Omelet

This is what I think was the strongest passage from my 2016 book Home. I have mixed feelings about the whole project. I spend so many hours holed up in coffee shops and my bedroom writing – getting so close to it – that I don't think I had the objectivity needed to cut a few segments that needed to be cut. In places it's overwritten and maybe a tad boring, but still – this book was a raw fucking look at the hopelessness that was my life after graduating college. The Cum Omelet passage starts now. 

                                                                         The Cum Omelet

That summer–the post-college one, 2013–some girl permitted me, Tor Tarantula, Bladewing the Risen, and also this kid Neb to cook up our ejaculate in a frying pan and then feed it to her on a ceramic plate. 

That happened. A girl really did that. And she did it for free, no less, while sober as a red-tailed hawk. I’m still somewhat mystified by this, even now.   

But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. The summer of ’13 was, after all, pretty fucked up. Some combination of the comfort of home, total unemployment, and an unwillingness to let the good times die with graduation led to this weird…

I don’t know. Mindset? Attitude? Emotional state? 

Maybe the Beatles said it best,best in that one song from Abbey Road (1969; Rob Christgau’s opinion: “Flawed but fine.”):

Out of college, money spent

See no future, pay no rent

Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go

There you go. The Magic Feeling. That’s what it was. 

But I have to wonder if, when Paul sat down and penned those lyrics–you know, Paul: the guy who dropped his first No. 1 album when he was 20–I have to wonder if he had any fucking idea how potent the Magic Feeling really is. The kind of strange behavior it really can inspire in a graduated boy who has little in the way of future or housing expenses or places to go. 

For one, it, the Magic Feeling, made me start skateboarding again. Made me start putting back and forth across the driveway in the afternoons: shirtless and lathered in sunblock, doing flip tricks and ollieing over cardboard boxes. Then waving to my parents when they pulled in after work, like I did when I was in 5th grade.

For two, the Magic Feeling made me commit no less than four acts of semi-public sex. 

That summer, precisely once, I tried to bring a girl home and pollinate her while my parents were asleepasleep. precisely once. 

It went poorly. I was wasted. The house has wood floors. My bed was only about 30 horizontal feet and a thin wall away from my parents’ bed. It’s, like,It’s like bottom-of-the-ocean silent out there in the country where they live. My mom is a notoriously light sleeper. Taken together, these things made for an atmosphere at breakfast the next morning that I had essentially zero interest in recreating.

Solution? 

Truck. The Magic Feeling made it so that, if you walked down the right dirt road in Orangevale between June and September, you might have seen my bronze Ford truck idling in the moonlight: dick no doubt already out of my pants, some intrigued but hesitant girl riding shotgun, window cracked just enough to hear me whimpering “Will you please at least finish me off?” 

Lastly, the Magic Feeling compelled me to drink a 12-pack by myself one night, then hop in my truck and drive around Orangevale fucking shit.

In a summer filled with crime and recklessness, this act is among the elite. A presidentially bad idea, sharing Mount Rushmore with the in-house pollination attempt, the graffiti assault on Casa Roble Fundamental High School, and then of course all the business with the horse pasture and the bomb during the now infamous Jagermasters night (we’ll get there: to the graffiti and the bomb thing).

Memories of this drunk driving session are hazy. I do remember swerving around Mountain Avenue at probably 60 mph:mph, right hand on the wheel, left hand dragging somebody’s recycling can. I remember having my head out the window, too:too; wind in my hair, howling like a dog into the night…

At one point I’m pretty sure I even nosed my front bumper up against some random mailbox post, then stomped the gas. The game plan here, I think, was to bulldoze the piece of shit into the dirt, but no dice. My truck lacked the requisite torque; wheels just spun.

And with all of this as a backdrop–three months spent being pretty much the opposite of a productive member of society–in this context, does a Cum Omelet really seem that farfetched? 

Not that I blame my younger self or anything. Hey, it’s easy to be seduced by the Magic Feeling, to get sucked into vandalism and skateboarding and radical interpretations of traditional French cuisine,cuisine when your only real responsibility is:

*          *         *

Watering the plants. 

Yes. That summer, most afternoons around 6 or 7, my parents would arm me with a hose and turn me loose on the three-acre property. This, my friends, was how I earned my keep.  

“And make sure you get every potted flower hanging near the front door,” my dad warned before my circuit that afternoon, the afternoon of the Cum Omelet. “Been checking those potted plants; been a little bit dry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the grapes.” He stuck a finger in my chest. “Let’s don’t forget about them grapes.”

I was maybe halfway through my daily circuit–perhaps even watering the grapes–when I heard it: a feminine laugh coming from Tor Tarantula’s property,property through the trees…

My eyes widened. I perked up. 

Girl? In these parts?

Out in rural Orangevale, the presence of a pre-menopausal female is a rare event indeed. One that generally necessitates an investigation of some sort.

I dropped the hose, cut a zigzag path toward Tor’s property.

(Getting there, to Tor’s, means crossing this little meadow, then making your way through a vegetable garden. There aren’t really any of those big, wooden, suburb-style backyard fences out there. No need. Houses are so far apart that privacy is a non-issue; the only point of having one, a fence, would be to like contain cattle or horses. Tor has a dog, but it’s a cross-eyed, legally retarded beagle that just sits there tethered to a tree all day, looking at the sky.) 

After tracking the voices and laughter through the vegetable garden and into Tor’s backyard, I spied what was a real standard scene at his house: a cluster of people sitting at his picnic table, smoking weed.

Getting closer, I was able to get a positive ID on Tor Tarantula. Bladewing the Risen, too, and also Neb, the drummer in Tor’s reggae band. But the other body at the table was still just a head of long brown hair, facing away…away.

“Uh, hey guys,” announcing myself, eyes fixed on the long hair. “What’s…going on?”

Bladewing spun around, squinted. “Ay! Danny! Get over here!”

Tor, upon seeing me, made a strange noise: one that functioned as both a greeting and also perhaps a tip off that he’d already enjoyed himself a few drinks. Then he yelled, “Just what the fuck have you been doing?”

“Oh, you know, just–”

“Want some of this?” Bladewing, pointing at a pipe. 

“Uh, maybe in a little bit? I’m–”

“Come sit down, you bastard,” said Tor. 

“Well, Ok. Yeah.”

Now some 15ish feet out from the table, I saw that, first of all, Tor did indeed have a little flock of empty bottles before him. But more important, I was able to catch a glimpse of this mystery girl’s profile.

(!)

And the feeling it inspired in me?

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t disgust, either. It wasn’t even something in between. 

No, ladies and gentleman. It was pleading. 

–Please, Jesus. Don’t let this fucking girl be as attractive as she presently appears to be. 

Adorable little nose and cheekbones. Stupendous-looking tits. 

Which, I’m not sure what I was hoping for when I dropped that hose and crossed the meadow…but it certainly wasn’t this.  

Why not?

Because there is no surer way to ruin an afternoon than having a bona fide hot girl in your midst. 

‘Cause now, instead of kicking back, having a beer or two, smoking a little weed, and trading some lewd comments with your buddies, it’s, like, all hands on deck. 

Now you have to be Cool. You have to jockey for position with the other bastards. Have to send out to the tip of your tongue an old bookish lady with glasses (for grammar and intellect), a dude with a leather jacket and sunglasses (for wit and Coolness) and some cargo short-wearing bull dyke with a flattop (to keep you from saying anything sexist or offensive) and have them filter every fucking syllable that escapes your jaw. 

And even if you fancy yourself a real Casanova…even if you snag this broad’s number…well, even that’s equal parts blessing and curse. 

Why?

Because now–fuck everything else going on in your life. You gotta clear your schedule. You gotta deploy all units–land, air, and sea–in the name of pollinating her. 

Which means ironing shirts. Cleaning out your car. Maybe getting a haircut. Having to spend a bunch of time thinking about, like, where am I going to take this fucking chick? 

Which is why I get the pleading feeling almost every time I spot a Potential Hot Girl. In Starbucks, when I’m trying to get some serious work done. At the grocery store, when I’m just trying to pick up a few basic provisions without my mind & dick telling me I’m a real puss for not going and trying to put the moves on the minx over in produce. Here again in Tor’s backyard: 

Please, God. Let this all be an illusion. Let those bullet-deflecting cheekbones be lizardish when I get up close. Let those artillery shell tits be matched by a real bag-of-lard stomach when she stands up from the picnic table. Let me just go about my day. Live out the rest of the afternoon without a gang of Darwinian urges swinging in out of the trees:trees – knives between their teeth, ambush on their minds. Can’t this girl just be Ok? You know–worth pollinating, but not worth, like, freaking out about pollinating?

But as I took a seat on Tor and Neb’s side of the table, directly across from the girl…

Yep. I was fucked. 

“Danny, this is Emaline,” said Bladewing the Risen, his tone neutral, cool. “Emaline this is Danny.”

“Hi,” said Emaline, without looking at me.

“Uh hey.” I waved my hand jerkily.

"Can one of your you fuckers pass me the pipe?” she said. “Neb, it’s been sitting in front of you for five minutes now. I’ve been counting. How high are you? Come on.”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” said Neb, flustered, handing it over. “Uh, sorry.”

During the period of time that Emaline took her hit–big one, no cough, a pro–my gaze was fixed immovably on her body.

Nothing else existed. It didn’t matter that the scene out here was something out of a Faulkner novel. I didn’t appreciate the tire swing hanging from a nearby tree. I was only distantly aware that birds were chirping at things, that dragonflies were buzzing around aimlessly. If asked, I could have told you it was August, but it would have taken a while. The late afternoon sunrays were coming in slanty through the trees–warm, perfect–but I just didn’t care.

All I could think about was: tits.

Big Tits. On a slim frame. Pretty face. Pale skin. Too young to drink,drink by the looks of it. And again: Big Tits.

I wanted to flip over the table, start beating my chest.

Where did this girl come from? Was she spoken for? Had–God forbid–Bladewing already pollinated her? Did his introducing her indicate that? He was sitting next to her…

“So, uh, what’s up, gang?” I said, dropping the ramp, deploying my rover, ready to probe the social landscape.

“Not much,” said Bladewing. “Just got back from camping this afternoon. Up in the Sierras.”

My eyes flickered between him and Emaline. Together? Shared tent?

“Nice,” I said.

“Yeah, man. Good trip.”

Tor perked up, backhand-tapped Bladewing twice on the shoulder: “Wait–”

Yes Tor? my attention swinging to him.

“–tell him about your morning. Your little wake-up routine.”

Wake-up routine?

“Oh yeah. It was fucking great, man,” Bladewing, looking back to me. “I woke up around six or seven–before everybody else–then I climbed up this ridge and–get this–just fuckin jerked off up there.”

Alarmed, my eyes swiveled to Emaline,Emaline to see how she was taking this information.

“Not even sitting down or anything, either,” Bladewing assured me. “Just straight up,”–he dismounted the picnic table here, gave us a full body demonstration–“straight up power stance, fucking jerking myself off on a mountain. Into the sunrise.”

I decided to play it safe. Be political. “Oh, uh…oh yeah? Sounds…neat.”

“Dude, it felt amazing.” 

“You’re lucky nobody saw you,” Emaline told Bladewing. “You might have had to register as a sex offender or something.”

“Have had?” Tor, drunken smile crawling up his face. “He already, uh, is.” 

“Ha. But that’s the thing with like those sex-in-nature porn videos,” Emaline told us. “Are those even legal to shoot?”

My eyebrows went up. Porn? She watches porn?

“Maybe if you go, um, deep enough into the forest,” Tor offered sagely, before taking another hit.

“Hey, watch it on the exhale with that thing,” I said, looking across the meadow to my property. “My parents have been in and out of the back yard. Might be able to see us.”

“I get the sex-in-public videos,” Emaline went on, “because it’s obvious they close the supermarket or deli or the convenience store down first, and that the random people in there are just actors. But outside…like some girl getting pounded on the beach…”

What? Was I hearing this correctly? Was this girl, this hot girl…was this stuff really leaving her mouth?

Bladewing shrugged. “At UCSB people fuck on the beach sometimes. It’s not a huge deal.”

University of California, Santa Barbara, he meant. Bladewing, the lucky son of a bitch, still had another year of college left to go. 

“Maybe they’ll be some good beach-fucking in Santa Cruz too, huh?” he added, reaching around Emaline’s back, tugging playfully at her shoulder. 

She smiled. His hand lingered. Oh no. What was this? 

 “What's, uh, what's in Santa Cruz?” I blurted at Emaline, trying to siphon some attention away from Bladewing. 

After a pause, she replied in a monotone, again without looking at me. “I’m starting school at UC Santa Cruz next month.” 

My fists clenched up. My eyes went out of focus. 

Neb slid the pipe back to Tor. Tor looked down, shook his head, “Nah dude, that’s drugs,” he said before lifting it up and taking another hit. 

Afterward Tor said, “Santa Cruz should be rad. I might come visit you, actually. I would have visited Danny and Bladewing at school, but that’s, uh, far.”

“Danny needs to quit being a bitch and come down to Santa Barbara this year,” Bladewing told the table. “I visited him in L.A. once–not nearly as cool.”

Tor looked to me. “You going to let him do that? Talk shit about your school?”

I waved my hand disinterestedly. I was no longer a part of this conversation.

I’m starting school at UC Santa Cruz next month–that’s where I had fallen off.

Emaline here was on her way to a 4-year university.

A fucking 4-year! Out of high school! And she’s from Sacramento!

Around Sacramento–and certainly around Orangevale–a girl with the brainpower necessary for that kind of operation is a rare breed indeed.

And oh boy. If there’s one thing I can’t resist in this life, it’s Kollege Kunt: any girl in, about to be in, or recently graduated from a respectable university.

Wholesomeness. Intelligence. Goals.

The type of girls who are reasonable enough to get abortions. Who avoid poor grammar in both writing and casual conversation. Who wouldn’t even dream of addressing their friends as “blood,” “nigga,” “homie,” or “fool.” The type of girls aware that Lucky Charms and a Marlboro does not constitute a nutritious breakfast. Who understand that a little exercise here and there is maybe not such a bad idea. Who don’t utter horrendous clichés like “Well, looks like heaven gained another angel” whenever when somebody dies. Who don’t list pit bulls as their favorite breed of dog. Who don’t have Bible verses, portraits of dead pets, or phrases like “This too shall pass” tattooed on their ribs…ribs.

Oh my dear god. Kollege Kunt. Right here in Orangevale. With this development,development I lost all control.

“Fuck you. My parents have been drinking Fat Tire forever,” Tor was telling somebody. 

There was no longer any question: I needed to win this girl over. There appeared to be something between her and Bladewing, yes–but that didn’t matter. If it came to it, I would leave his carcass maimed and eviscerated on a field of romantic battle.

What was my move, though? How could I assert myself as the alpha male of this group, the thought leader?

What could I contribute that Emaline would view as stimulating, witty, masculine? She had demonstrated a real interest in porn…

“Oh yeah, forgot to ask,” Tor, addressing me. “You want one? A beer?”

My eyes came back into focus. I looked up. “Speaking of weird porn, have you guys ever seen those Cum Omelet videos? You know, with the Chef and girl and stuff?”

Oh God. Oh Jesus. Why that? Of all fucking things, why must I have said that?

Strange looks from the whole table. Nobody spoke. Emaline, I noted with horror, was glaring at me. Neb, stoned to the point of being basically unreachable this entire time–even he seemed alarmed. 

“What’s a…Cum Omelet?” asked Bladewing.

“Yes,” Emaline, through narrowed eyes. “Explain.”

Looking around at them, blinking, I considered my options.

Changing the subject–that might work. Pointing out one of the turkeys in the neighboring field. Commenting on its feathers, its markings. Or, or maybe asking Tor and Neb about their current songwriting effort, their latest battle with the drum kit and electric guitar…

But no. Too late for that. 

All eyes were fixed on me. Mouths just about hung open. Everybody, it seemed, was very eager to learn of the mysteries and idiosyncrasies of the Cum Omelet.

And after another moment or two, I sighed, gave in. “Ok, so…” and, knowing full well that it was likely the death of my chances with Emaline, I delivered a much more hesitant, jerky, watered-down version of the following speech.

The Cum Omelet Speech

Just from the name, I’m guessing you can infer more or less what a Cum Omelet entails. One girl, a bunch of guys, a frying pan…

From the two or three that I’ve watched, though, there is a certain, um, magic to these things–an attention to ceremony that warrants some elaboration here.

So yeah. To start, we usually fade in on a basement, where, right away, some broad in high heels goes prancing over to this little improvised kitchenette thing, and from there begins appraising the frying pan and stove.

This is our Starlet.

She’ll have her finger in her mouth, be suggestively rubbing the spatula, have her eyes googoo’ed out and all that, which, at least to me, represents a fairly heavy handed attempt by the director to convince us that this woman is here voluntarily. Convince us that mass cum consumption is one of her, like, passions. Which, come on. One look at the girl and you know her presence has less to do with “passion” and more to do with an eviction notice and/or a crippling addiction to pills. Not the prettiest pumpkins in the patch,patch these Cum Omelet girls. 

Then, as the camera pans out, we see that the basement is full of what might just be the most ragged crew of men ever assembled under one roof. It’s the kind of pool you’d draw from if tasked with staffing a pirate ship in the year 1726.

30, 40, 50 dudes. Almost certainly volunteers. No unifying theme among them whatsoever.

You’ve got a couple young studs, sure, but then you’ve also got old balding dudes in the mix. Black guys. Fat guys. Guys with mullets. Guys who look like they pulled up in 18-wheelers. Guys who may or may not have spent the last few seasons trapping beaver in the Pacific Northwest. Some of these dudes even have nerve enough to show up in face paint, costumes. And though they’re still fully clothed and just standing around, everybody is smiling, giggling. Somehow,Somehow you just know these guys all met up in the parking lot before hand and tailgated this thing.

But whatever. By and by we cut to our starlet down on bended knee in the middle of the room,room holding a glass measuring cup beneath her chin.

Also, it appears that, during the cut, the men were instructed to produce their dicks and begin masturbating. I say this because, suddenly, out of nowhere, a man with a full-on erection appears on screen,screen and he goes ahead and ejaculates into the starlet’s mouth.

And what does our Starlet do with this ejaculate? Does she greedily swallow it down?

Oh no. Disciplined lass that she is, she spits it right back out into that measuring cup of hers, where it will soon pool with the seed of 30+ other men. 

Yes. After our first brave ejaculator gets the ball rolling, things start to feel like the first few levels of a Super Mario game. Dudes come flying onto the screen, groan, and then go flying off. Putting up no resistance at all.

Soon, they’re coming in from both sides. Two lines have been organized. Things are moving remarkably smoothly, too. You get the impression some guy with an orange vest and clipboard is pushing his way through the mob, analyzing the jerkers’ facial expressions, and then arranging everybody based on what he perceives is their proximity to orgasm.

Ten-minute chunks start to fall off your laptop’s clock. You can’t take your eyes off the screen. The cum level in the measuring cup, you notice, is moving steadily north.

And here’s maybe the best thing about these videos: by the time about seven of these guys have come in and done their thing on the Starlet’s face, you begin to see this trend of…normal cock size.

The cocks are relatable. They look like yours or mine.

After spending unknowable years beating yourself silly to porn, along the way becoming so jaded that a thick 8-incher on screen no longer even makes you flinch…it’s hard to describe the wave of relief these Cum Omelet videos provide.

Normal penises, you’re starting to see, look less like cucumbers, bananas, and eggplants and more like a roll of quarters, a pack of Lifesavers.

After 15 or 20 guys make their contribution to the measuring cup, this becomes a fucking religious experience. Christ. You even see black guys with cocks that your cock could go out and grab a beer with.

(This, by the way, is conclusive proof that these men are not professional porn performers. That–unlike our Starlet–these guys are here voluntarily, are likely very psyched about spending their Sunday in this fashion, and just for sure showed up three hours early and tailgated up a storm in the parking lot.)

So. After the seed of about 30 men has dribbled off the starlet’s face and into the measuring cup (the reason ~30 instead of all 40 or 50 is, you know a big chunk of these guys, either because of nerves or because of the lingering effects of the aforementioned tailgate, can’t even get themselves hard, much less ejaculate) after the seed of those ~30 enters the cup by way of the Starlet's face, the Chef enters the fray. 

Oh yes. The Chef.

Sometimes he’ll call order by banging pots together. Other times he just wades out into the mayhem and snatches the measuring cup and takes it back to his little kitchenette. Either way, this guy means business.

Full chef’s attire. Always. White jacket, apron, gloves, big puffy hat. If he’s really feeling the role, he’ll do a Simba/Pride Rock style presentation of the measuring cup to the whole room before dumping its contents into his frying pan.

Low heat–that seems to be the ideal setting at which to cook cum. It takes a while, yes, but the tape is fast-forwarded in order to make the process more watchable. Also, presumably under orders from the director again, the Starlet goes over and peers into the pan, making a big effort to look fascinated/turned on/hungry. 

Then–dinner is served.

The Starlet dons a bib; she’s given a fork and knife. 

The Chef scrapes out the “omelet” (which doesn’t look like the kind of omelet you’d get in any self-respecting French bistro, but in truth kinda does look like scrambled egg whites) onto a plate, and then thrusts it at our Starlet, who, for the 15th time today, is down on her knees on the concrete floor.

She eats it, all right. And the whole time she’s eating it, the Chef is standing behind her menacingly. With his arms crossed. As if there will be some serious repercussions if this entire dish isn’t finished, and if she doesn’t enjoy every stinking bite.

Which, she acts like she does–enjoy it. Smacking her lips and cooing and all that. But, between you and me, you don’t have to look very hard to see some real pain in her eyes the entire time.

*     *     *

(Again, the way I delivered this in real life was much more toned down. I even added little point-scoring modifiers for Emaline’s ears, e.g. the pill-addicted Starlet was always “the poor girl”; The Chef, anybody wearing face paint, and anybody who ejaculated into the Starlet’s eyes in a way that looked intentional became “a real disrespectful jerk.)jerk”).

Silence around the table after I finished. Facial expressions: tough to read.

Then: “That’s actually pretty funny,” said Emaline.

Funny?

Me: “Uh, I guess I agree. But, it’s also,” still measuring my words very carefully, “it’s also, you know, intense.”

“I mean, it’s not that intense,” she said. “Girls have to swallow cum all the time.”

I blinked a few times. What the fuck…“Well, um, yeah. But it’s not, like, ceremonial, usually. You know. With some asshole dressed like a chef hanging around. And plus you don’t have to hold it in your mouth and act like you’re savoring every drop.”

Wha–was this really happening? Was I, Danny Mullen–if not the Dirtbag King, then at least among the land-owning nobility–was I really telling this girl that she should feel more disturbed by something I’d seen in porn?

“I’m actually curious what it would taste like, all cooked up,” Emaline said.

My eyes got really big. 

My heart rate went from, like, afternoon-stroll-in-the-park levels to the level that would happen if you woke up at 3 am a.m. and there was fire. I glanced at the other guys at the table. I couldn’t be the only one thinking…

“So, like,” I said, “you would, like–just hypothetically, of course–maybe at some point in the future…would you maybe consider–”

“Consider eating cooked cum?” Emaline laughed. This was amusing to her. “Yeah I’m pretty sure I would, actually. Just to say I did it.”

My heart rate now:now at whatever BPM happens after falling into the enclosure of something big and carnivorous at the zoo. “Well, uh, we have…four guys here,” I pointed out, my voice shaky.shaky,  “Andand, and I’m fairly certain Tor’s parents own a stove.”

“They do,” said Tor, now alert, sober, seeing where this was going. “Stove’s inside.”

“Ok.” I nodded at him. “So the stove situation is under control. And probably also frying pans…”

Each individual second felt as if it had been laid out on an anvil–hammered flat, extended.

“So, like,” I gulped. Oh God. “Would you be down to…do a cum omelet? Now? With…with us?”

Emaline sized me up, thought things over. Country silence all around us. Birds were still chirping. The obligatory afternoon lawn mower was going off somewhere in the distance.