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You Can Only Masturbate To Italian Chef Sculptures Outside Of Pizza Places For So Long Before Wanting The Real Thing

You know those statues of Italian chefs that some pizza places have out front? I’m sure you’ve seen them around just about everywhere—little waist-high sculptures planted on the sidewalk, welcoming customers into the pizzeria with an outstretched arm and a broad, coquettish grin. As soon as you catch sight of those stout little figures, you’ll notice them all over the place. And once you really look them over, you’ll see they’re sexy as hell. In fact, they drive me absolutely wild every time I get one in my sights, and I’d go ahead and say those statues are one of my favorite things to masturbate to.

But I’ll tell you, that’s the problem right there: The fact is, you can only jack off to Italian chef sculptures outside of pizza joints for so long before you’ve just got to have the real thing.

Now don’t get me wrong, those sculptures are great and I love concealing myself in nearby shrubbery and bringing myself to climax while staring at them. The bushy mustache, the bright red kerchief knotted around the neck, the bulbous ceramic nose. Not to mention those flushed cheeks, the bottle of Chianti clutched in a tantalizingly plump hand, and the puffy white smock that just barely covers the figure’s pudgy pot belly. And sometimes, just sometimes, three sausage-like fingers brought to the chef’s pursed, slightly open lips in a wordless “delizioso!” That’s just plain hot, no question about it.

But the fact is, these statues can only get my blood pumping so many times before I’ve got to up the ante, and lately that’s had me fantasizing about finding a living, breathing Italian chef to fixate on as I bring myself to a quaking orgasm.

God, just thinking about the genuine article has my prick throbbing so hard right now. The sleazy Sicilian accent, the exaggerated hand gestures, the apron stained with bolognese sauce. He’s wearing a crumpled white chef’s hat and he’s breathing heavily as he twists and pummels the pizza dough with his meaty, experienced fingers. Ooh, yeah. There’s no fan in the kitchen and he sweats all the way through his dirty undershirt. His mouth opens slightly and his tongue hangs slack out one side as he spins the dough up into the air, again and again and again. Mmm, that’s what I’m talking about!

I’m sorry, but a dinky little statue—no matter how high its eyebrows are arched—just can’t compete with something like that.

Sure, I’ve had some unbelievable orgasms looking at those seductive little chefs. Just last month I was at my usual red vinyl booth at Santino’s Pizzeria and locked eyes with their naughty statue making an “A-okay” gesture and winking, and was pushed over the exhilarating edge of climax when the opening strains of a Luciano Pavarotti song came over the restaurant’s speakers. But now I just hunger for so much more.

Honestly, feasting my eyes on a real, rotund Italian chef is all I’ve been able to think about lately. Even earlier today, when I was crouched behind the dumpster in the alley across the street from Roberto’s Pizza & Subs and fondling myself to that tasty little fiberglass number they’ve got chained up by their entrance, I couldn’t stop visualizing that statue’s real-life counterpart holed up in a steamy trattoria kitchen somewhere, the sinews on his hairy forearms bulging as he takes that big, long paddle and thrusts it into the oven to pull out a steaming pie. Aw, yeah! Or maybe he could be working on a vat of thick, creamy Alfredo sauce and some of it bubbles up and splashes his greasy, protruding chest hair. Yes, yes! Or maybe he’s slowly swirling a ladle of tomato sauce around on the hand-tossed dough, and ever so perfectly crimping the crust with his deft fingertips until I can’t even take it anymore!

Mamma mia indeed!

When I get this worked up, even the clip-art Italian chef on the laminated menu taped to a pizzeria’s front window gets me rock hard. It makes me just want to burst into the back of the kitchen and watch that big, hairy cook pound his muscular fist into a ball of floured dough! The bottom line is that stroking yourself underneath a balled-up jacket on your lap while staring intently at the slutty little miniature chef sculpture holding up a plate of breath mints by the cash register can only get you off for so long.

This isn’t high school anymore, when I could just jerk it to the cartoon mascot with a tomato for a hat on the front of the Tony’s frozen pizza box, or stay home with a bottle of K-Y Jelly and fast forward to all the pizza-making scenes in Do The Right Thing like I did every night for years. No, if I really want to get off—and I mean really get off—I’ve got to take risks. And that means chasing my dreams of hiding in a restaurant pantry and beating myself raw while peeking out at a husky second-generation Italian-American chef panting away as he vigorously slices hot pizzas into eight perfect wedges as I tremble and gasp with ecstasy next to the large plastic containers of cheese and red pepper flakes behind him.

So if you’ll excuse me, it’s about time for me to put up or shut up. I’m heading on over to Little Italy, and if all goes well I ought to be arriving just as a number of fine establishments open for lunch. Buon appetito, amici!

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