To the Bone

I never order prime rib in restaurants.

Last year, it was the centerpiece of my New Year's Eve dinner. My great grandmother's Irish lace tablecloth served as the backdrop for my gold-rimmed Wedgwood China. The silverware and crystal reflected the flickering light from four ivory-colored tapered candles, evenly spaced down the midline of the table.

My husband and guests complimented me on the perfect pink shade of the meat, the crispness of the red potatoes and the contrasting colors of the salad. Even my mother-in-law smiled at me. For moments at a time, the room was quiet except for the sound of chewing. Then someone would break the silence, needing to exclaim at how good something tasted, even while their mouth was still half full of it.

Me, I only nibbled small portions. I was content to sit back in my chair, looking down the length of the table, watching my family and friends enjoy the feast I had prepared for them.

Once they were done, no one left the table. I suspected they were too full to move. Besides there was still plenty of wine left to lubricate their conversation and fuel their laughter. With my guests occupied, I took the dishes into the kitchen. On the cutting board, waiting for me were the meat-laden bones of the rib roast soaking in a partly congealed puddle of bloody juices.

A starving wolf wouldn't have moved faster. I grabbed a rib with an inch of meat adorning it. I dug in deep and hard, tearing muscle away from bone. Grease dribbled down my chin. It ran down my neck to my chest and slid down my cleavage.

My eyes opened wider, my pulse quickened and my mouth watered as I searched for the next spot to ravage. I went for the fist-sized hunk at the end. I gnawed the intertwined gristle and meat, storing the luscious blend in my mouth for a second or two before swallowing.

I paused for a breath and then savored the flavor and texture as I chewed the next bite. With my lids not quite closed, I mmm'ed and moaned and sighed. My head fell back and rolled from side to side. The only tense part of my body was the fist that held tight the source of my orgasmic pleasure.

When all but a few bites was gone, I battled with a stubborn piece of cartilage that refused to let go of the bone. I worked it for five minutes - teasing myself, delaying my plunge into the remaining meat. When the power of my jaw and the agility of my tongue triumphed, I rewarded myself with the final tasty chunks.

Afterwards, I still couldn't let go. I ravaged the bone some more, scraping my teeth along its length. Finally I released it to my dog. He grabbed it and snarled his disappointment. Feeling too spent to care and glistening from grease, I returned to my guests and said, "Let's rest before dessert."

© 2004 Jeri Dube