I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.

Damn my hair-it just won't behave-and damn my jeans. Jeez, I look like ten pounds of meatballs in a five pound sack. My inner goddess is sad.

I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, but I'm tired. And hungry. Mainly hungry. I tried sleeping with my professor for an "A," but he told me he was gay.

"I didn't know you were gay," I commented, trying hard not to offend the LGBT by overusing the G-word. Maybe I'll use the word "dancer" instead.

"I'm not," he commented back, "but in your case I'll make an exception."

So here I am. Trying to stretch these jeans into submission. In frustration I rip them off-traitors!-and go into the kitchen for a snack. Nothing like a whole ham to make a girl feel pretty. My subconscious drools at the thought.

Seven pounds of pork later, I'm standing over the sink daintily washing my hands and wiping the excess grease from my mouth, when I feel a disturbance in The Force. It's HIM. He corners me at the garbage disposal. His eyes smolder like charcoal briquettes on a grill.

Crap, crap, and double-crap. I'm standing there in just a t-shirt and an old pair of grannie calzones.

"Turn around," he orders, his voice filled with hunger, like Rosie O'Donnell at a vegetarian buffet.

I do as I'm told. I can't help myself. I am compelled to obey.

"These aren't the droids we're looking for," I can hear myself repeating from a place far, far away. "Move along."

"Bend over," is his next command. I guess he likes what he sees.

So I bend over, giving him a full view of my plump and round calamari.

"Do these calzones make my spinaci look fat?" I ask, trying to break the tension.

He gives me a playful slap.

"No," he says. "Your fonduta makes your spinaci look fat. But that's all right. I like fat women. When they fall they make more noise."

That was good. That was bad. That was ugly. My inner goddess is offended, as are the readers of this story, and doesn't notice when he walks in front of me, until he cups my head in his meaty hands. I can see him. His turgid cavolo was free and in full view. I can see he has buttons, not a zipper, and that's why I hadn't heard.

He tells me, "I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body." He opens his mouth and shows me the little punching bag-looking thingie in the back of his throat. "I'm very attached to this."

My subconscious is not impressed. I open my mouth as naturally as the refrigerator door at a Weight Watcher's meeting. I look up at him, my mouth full of his panettone. His eyes are closed. His face twisted in ecstasy. His lips moving as if in silent prayer.

I reach out, cup his hanging panna cotta in one hand, feeling their heaviness, sweet cream in need of release. I give them a playful squeeze, encouraging him to go deeper. He does. My fettuccine alfredo aches for him, cream sauce dripping.

He ignores my need like a salad at dinner. Instead he reaches forward and places a finger on the sweet spot of my vermicelli. I moan, both my voice and my mandoria quivering.

He stiffens. Cries out, as if in pain-a sweet pain. Holy moly, I feel hot, hard gushes of spumoni, over and over again... until nothing.

"That was mine," he can barely speak. He swallows meat from the chicken leg he's noshing on, and continues. "The next will be yours."

Jeepers, that's freaking hot. He reaches underneath me. Grabs two handfuls of my heavy zabagleones, and massages them softly, playfully tweaking my panini. Together we bring his shriveled little gnocci back to life.

"Stay," he orders me like a dog, and I stay.

He walks around behind me. Roughly rips off my calzones, puts them to his face, devours my scent, and immediately excuses himself to go throw up. He's so much a gentleman.

When he returns, I'm in the same position, reading the latest issue of People magazine. Kate Middleton is on the cover. She's so pretty. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah... I can feel him behind me... fiddling around... doing something. I finish the article I'm reading, put down the magazine, and ask, "Holy frijole, man, what are you doing back there?"

"I'm looking for your prosciutto."

"Well," I pant, impatiently, "just throw some flour back there and look for a wet spot."

I grunt like the filthy little conchiglie I am, and brace myself for whatever is to come next. For whatever is to come next. For whatever is to come next.

Once found, he takes his penne, places it accordingly, and thrusts into me savagely. After an instant of pain, I feel ecstasy, as his provelone goes in and out of my olive garden, over and over again, and over again once more.

"The last time I did this," I tell him, "I had to get a shot of penicillin for a bad case of straciatella."

"Never trust a man who can dance," he tells me, inscrutably.

"Why not?"

"Because he's probably a dancer," he says, and then stuffs his carpaccio into my bruschetta in one fierce stroke.

My tortuffo melts at the fullness of his focaccia. The speed and the savagery of his thrusts make me weak in the knees. My inner goddess wants to join in the fun, so she shows me her cavolfiore. I tell her to hit the road, and she sticks out her tongue... and not in the fun way.

"Faster, faster," I moan. "Harder, harder," I cry. "Deeper, deeper," I grunt. I guess two out of three ain't bad. My inner goddess goes off to see what's on the tube, while my subconscious dances a little jig. Holy mackerel, I say to myself (only I didn't say mackerel), do you think my subconscious is a dancer?

I wonder when this ecstasy will end. I wonder if I could ever have another man after this. I wonder why Beyonce was voted People's most beautiful woman in the world. She's certainly not more beautifuler than Kate Middleton. Or as sexy. Huh? What The FRAK? He's finished already?

So much for this one being mine.

I try to cuddle against him.

"Sugo al pomodoro," I murmur, lovingly. Completely sated.

He roughly pulls away like I've got crabs or something. Hey, I got rid of those years ago.

"Pasta al pesto," he tells me, cruelly.

"Pasta e fagioli!" I spit back, angry and hurt. I look to my inner goddess. She's doing jumping jacks, trying to lose those last five pounds.

I hit him where it hurt, right in the old tortellini, so he empties out of my apartment faster than Superman's bowells after a bad clam.

"Laters, baby," he says, not letting the door hit him where the good Lord split him.

Laters, indeed.