We’re putting together an anthology of short stories inspired by the (in)famous prompt: Write about a brown paper bag.

If you’re interested and ready for heavy editing, submit your draft to foodyap@gmail.com. This is a passion project, so there’s no compensation. This is just an opportunity to refine your craft and be part of a creative exploration.

Feel free to use AI, but I guarantee that it churns out mediocre, predictable crap (getting worse, in fact). That said, it’s great as a research assistant, an advanced thesaurus, or a basic line editor. It’s also a reliable reviewer, it can recognize quality even if it can’t create it the same in a sustainable manner.

All topics, genres, and styles are welcome. The goal is to showcase as much variety as possible—even erotica. Think snippets of everyday life. Keep submissions under 1,000 words.

Here’s one I wrote, I suppose it’s a children’s book?

My Lunch Pal

 

The crinkle of my lunch bag was softer than usual, mother never reused a bag four times. It wasn’t like her to stretch things so thin, and it made me wonder if we were having money troubles again. Still, the gentle rustle of the bag opening was oddly comforting. It sounded lived-in and familiar. Like home, even if home felt a little more fragile these days.

I had always imagined the opening of the bag to be a giant mouth speaking wordlessly to me. Instead of words, it offered food to tell me about its day. I could sense its worry when it handed me a thin slice of bologna caught between two stale pieces of food bank bread. Its frustration came through in the broken crackers, I imagined it watching over my mother as she tried to shake out every last crumb caught at the bottom of the box. There were days when it smiled, slipping an extra piece of chocolate into my hand—an indulgent promise that things might be looking up.

My lunch pal was especially chatty when we ate outside, the breeze nudging it to flutter its thoughts. I would gesture back with my eyes as I unwrapped the daily gifts it gave me. Or respond with the twitch of my nostrils before I opened my mouth to continue our conversation with the murmuring sounds of my chewing. He would tell me about mother, about how she felt before she turned herself into the always cheerful version of herself. I once wondered about it, my fingers smoothing its wrinkled skin. When I asked, it told me it was tired and just wanted to go home.

I took a bite of my sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, and noticed there was less mayo than usual. My tongue lingered on the dry edges of the bread. Was it just a mistake, or had she been trying to make the jar last longer? When I finished, I bundled the plastic wrap into the bag and peered inside, hoping to find more. Today, there was nothing more so I folded it neatly and patted it, thanking it for the conversation.

The wind grabbed hold of it. The bag tumbled out from between my legs, cartwheeling across the grass.

“Wait!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I darted after it, but before I could reach it, a man bent down and scooped it up.

“I’ll toss this for you,” he said, already turning toward a garbage can.

“No, wait!” I called, but it was too late.

I approached the can, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then I plunged my hand inside, digging through wrappers and discarded cups until my fingers brushed against the familiar texture of the bag.

“Gotcha,” I whispered, pulling it free.

Stuck to it was another paper bag, this one heavier, white and crumpled. I separated the two, the gum that held them together pulling into sticky strings before snapping free. I rubbed my lunch pal clean and then opened our new friend to ask if it was okay.

It said it was and offered me a reward for saving it. I shook my head to let it know it wasn’t necessary, but it insisted. I reached in and found a half-eaten sandwich, thick and heavy. I finished it, and our new friend offered another gift. This time, I found a bag of sliced apples. I thanked it with each bite, watching my two lunch pals rustle against each other as they got to know each other on the grass beneath me.

Lots of yummy food in this novel, it’s an exploration of Filipino cuisine. Aiming to releasing this before the end of the year. Excerpts below. Oh, before you head there, here’s a few AI Bot generated comments about the novel:

“Your writing is fearless and confidently leans into taboo, surreal, and absurd elements. The playful mix of erotica with humor and incongruity (like the mango sago dialogue or the Jesus imagery) is memorable and distinct.”

“… provocative, memorable, and uniquely styled, with a clear focus on blending eroticism, humor, and surrealism. It will resonate with readers who appreciate bold, boundary-pushing content that doesn’t shy away from taboo or absurdity.”

 

Book Description

This erotic satirical spy thriller unravels uncomfortable truths about Filipino society and U.S. geopolitical diplomacy, ending with a bizarre and horrific sci-fi twist. If you’re looking for insights into contrived personalities and a bunch of clueless, corrupt functionaries, this is the book for you. Finish it, and you’ll be asking yourself: what the fuck did I just read?

What you’ll read is a wacky story about a horny mofo of an American Ambassador to the Philippines. Will his insatiable sexual appetite save the U.S. from disaster, or plunge it into a world war? Will his Filipina maid and secretary save him—and the world—from catastrophe?

This isn’t just an erotic romp that Americans brag about after visiting the Philippines. This novel is a metaphor about American men searching for love in the Philippines and the U.S.’s messy involvement in its politics. It’s a raw, unflinching look at the dirty truths behind U.S. diplomacy and the dark side of geopolitics. Packed with mind-bending plot twists and lurid revelations, this book will leave you tense, laughing, and questioning everything you thought you knew about American power and human nature.

Still waiting for the Epstein files to be released? Don’t. It’s not going to happen. Read this to discover what might really be going through the minds of American leaders who claim to be saviors of the world and protectors of the American way of life.

 

Chapter 12
Drunken Master

After an hour more of greetings and introductions with various functionaries and business leaders, it was time for dinner.

“I’m starving,” Cheryl grumbled, checking her phone. “They usually serve hors d’oeuvres before dinner.”

“Yeah, they trying to get us drunk or something?” Hunter asked as he settled into his seat, leaning over to see what Cheryl was checking.

“Loose lips diplomacy, right?” she said in a sarcastic tone, slipping her phone into her purse as she slid into her chair. She looked at the placards on the table.

“Ambassador,” she began, fixing on him the stern look of a proctor trying to keep a wayward student in line. “Looks like we’ve been seated with the Chinese delegation. You ready for this?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, draining the last of his champagne. “With you by my side to distract them with your beauty, I’ll karate chop them into Peking Duck.”

She grabbed his wrist, stopping the chopping motion he was making with his hand. “Do you even know what the Chinese want?” she asked, waving away a server who approached with more champagne. “Bring some water, please,” she added, shooting Hunter a pointed look.

“Yeah, they want to take over the world,” he muttered, staring at Cheryl’s modest cleavage. “And my job is to save the Philippines from these authoritarian communist bastards.”

Before Cheryl could respond, the Chinese delegation approached the table. She took Hunter’s elbow, giving it a squeeze to signal him to stand.

He staggered as he got to his feet, straightening his jacket just in time to greet them.

“You must be the new ambassador, Ambassador Underhill,” said the Chinese deputy, his stern looking wife standing at his side. Her sharp eyes scanned Hunter like a surgeon assessing a patient, then shifting to Cheryl with a faint smile.

“I am,” Hunter said, leaning forward to shake his hand. “And you are?”

“Mr. Zhang, Deputy Ambassador” he said with a wry smile that Hunter couldn’t detect because he was drunk. “And Mrs. Zhang, my wife.” She extended her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Zhang,” he said, surprised by the firmness of her grip as they shook hands.

Everyone sat down after introductions of others around the table, Hunter with a plop into his seat.

The food arrived. First course was seared foie gras with mango chutney. “Wow, this is amazing,” said Hunter, taking a mouthful and munching away.

Cheryl savored the first bite, letting the rich, buttery texture of the foie gras melt on her tongue. The delicate sear added just enough crispness to contrast with its velvety interior. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes briefly as the sweetness of the mango chutney followed, perfectly cutting through the decadence of the foie gras.

“This,” she murmured to herself, setting her fork down, “makes these dinners worth it.”

Hunter had already devoured his portion, chewing noisily. “Not bad,” he muttered, reaching for the bread to scoop up the last of the chutney.

Cheryl arched a brow, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “You’re supposed to savor it, not inhale it.”

“Food’s food,” Hunter replied with a shrug. “Though I wouldn’t mind a burger after this.”

She shook her head, glancing around the table. Mr. Zhang ate his foie gras with precision, in small, deliberate bites. Mrs. Zhang, serene and silent, ate similarly, her eyes flicking toward Hunter as he dragged another piece of bread across his plate.

“Ambassador,” Cheryl said quietly, her tone pointed.

“What?” Hunter asked as he popped the bread into his mouth.

“Just… pace yourself,” she said, forcing a polite smile.

Mrs. Zhang looked up after finishing her plate. “The foie gras is excellent, isn’t it?”

“Exquisite,” Cheryl replied. “The pairing with the mango is inspired.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Zhang said, raising his glass. “A perfect balance of indulgence and restraint.”

Cheryl caught the emphasis on “restraint” and the glance the Zhangs shot at Hunter, who was now gulping down his water.

“To restraint,” Hunter said, smirking as he set his glass down with a thud.

Cheryl sighed to herself, placing her fork neatly on her plate. The evening was turning into a tightrope walk. She had to make sure Hunter didn’t fall from it, taking her with him.

The second course arrived—a traditional Filipino stew served in individual bowls, its rich aroma of peanut sauce and slow-braised oxtail mingling with the faint tang of shrimp paste on the side.

“Now this is interesting,” Hunter said, leaning forward as the server placed the bowl in front of him. He jabbed his spoon into the stew, stirring up chunks of meat and vibrant vegetables. He leaned down to take a sniff. “Peanut butter soup?”

“It’s kare-kare,” Cheryl corrected, smiling at the Zhangs before turning to Hunter. “A classic Filipino dish. The peanut sauce reflects the Filipino gift for blending unexpected flavors—nutty, hearty, and sweet.” She winked at the Chinese delegation, adding with a grin, “Kind of like Filipinos themselves.”

Hunter let the thought linger for a moment, his smile widening as she continued. “It’s a bit like the culture, too—a mix of influences, histories, and traditions that come together into something uniquely Filipino.”

Mr. Zhang nodded, bringing the bowl up to his lips. “A true comfort food,” he said, inhaling the rich aroma before scooping a spoonful and tasting it. He paused to savor the flavors. “It’s a dish that speaks to the heart of Filipino culture—simple yet rich, unassuming yet complex.”

Hunter brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth, slurping it in before chewing with exaggerated thoughtfulness. His expression mimicked that of a food judge before he broke into a grin. “Yep, tastes just like you, Cheryl,” glancing at her. “Nutty, hearty, and sweet. And definitely complex.” He scooped another spoonful and swallowed, smacking his lips like he had earlier after tasting his fuck toy. “All that’s missing is a little spice.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes despite a smirk tugging at her lips. She caught Mr. Zhang chuckling as he set his bowl down.

Mrs. Zhang raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hunter with a wry smile before saying in Mandarin, “Maybe this American isn’t as dumb as he looks.”

“What was that?” Hunter said, barely looking up, food still in his mouth.

“She said you’re very witty,” Cheryl whispered to him.

“You speak Chinese?” Hunter asked, sticking his thumb up in response.

“Yes, I majored in Chinese studies with a minor in International Relations.”

“Ah, beauty and brains,” he commented, setting his bowl down with a thump. With a sly smile, he winked at the delegation. “I’m a lucky guy, eh?

Cheryl rolled her eyes and shot back, “Lucky enough to find someone with the patience to put up with you.”

Similar lighthearted banter continued over the final three courses—inasal, the smoky, citrus-marinated grilled seafood that tasted like a seaside vacation on a plate; adobong baboy, tender pork braised in soy sauce, vinegar, and garlic, with a bold, unfiltered flavor as lively as a night out in a Cebu nightclub; and halo-halo, the colorful shaved ice dessert, a refreshing escape from both the tropical heat and societal expectations. Each dish brought its own blend of playful jabs, cultural insights, and a deepening camaraderie around the table.

“Well, that was amazing,” said Hunter, leaning back in his seat, fist over his mouth to muffle a belch. “I’m so glad Filipino food isn’t just Jollibee, though I wouldn’t mind one of those chicken sandwiches right about now.”

Cheryl sneered, shaking her head. “Does McDonald’s represent all of American food, Hunter?”

He tilted his head up, as if deep in thought before dropping it to meet Chery’s glare. “You know, I wouldn’t mind some McDonald’s fries right now. Do they still use animal fat here, or have they switched to that gross, so-called ‘healthy’ veggie oil like in the U.S.?”

Cheryl let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Ambassador, we still use animal fat.”

“Woo hoo!” Hunter exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just won the lottery. “The Philippines really is paradise!”

The Foreign Secretary took the stage with the swagger and focus of a boxer entering the ring. His voice resonated through the microphone—“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to welcome our Vice President, Manny Duterte!”

Applause followed as Duterte approached the podium with an athletic stride despite a hint of a limp, his face creased in a folksy grin that radiated warm resolve. He waved briefly before diving in.

“Good evening, everyone,” he began. “I want to thank you all for joining us tonight. I must apologize on behalf of President Marcos, who could not be here. He is currently in Washington, D.C., congratulating the newly inaugurated U.S. President, Andrew Tate.”

“I voted for him,” Hunter whispered to Cheryl. “Shhh, don’t tell on me.”

“Why am I not surprised,” she murmured, staring ahead.

Duterte continued, “We are, however, honored to have with us tonight the new U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines, Mr. Hunter Underhill.”

Cheryl jabbed Hunter’s side. “Get up. Now.”

Hunter stood like he’d just been jolted out of a lewd daydream. He waved enthusiastically, both hands in the air before blurting out, “Thank you, thank you, everyone! Uh… salamat po!”

The room offered scattered applause. He raised his glass, toasting the room. “It’s truly an honor to be here in your beautiful country, and I’m already enjoying my time here.” He glanced down at Cheryl with a teasing grin. “I mean, not only are your women beautiful, but your McDonald’s fries are still cooked in animal fat, unlike in the US.” He looked back up, scanning the crowd. “So, yeah, paradise found!”

The room erupted in applause and raucous laughter. Cheryl sat still, looking like a defeated schoolteacher who’d lost control of her class.

“Yeah, Philippines, numero uno!” Hunter shouted, pumping his fist.

The applause swelled and grew louder, the laughter turning into a roar.

Hunter soaked up the commotion for a few moments before waving his hand like a conductor to tamp it down. “But you,” he said, pointing at the Vice President, “you are the number one reason why we’re here today, so everyone give him a shout-out!”

The room broke into shouts and hollers as the Vice President waved and smiled like the day he and President Marcos won the election. Meanwhile, Hunter looked around like a guy who’d entered a harem of worshipping women. He waited for the room to quiet into a murmuring silence.

“And with that,” he said, “let’s hear—and learn—from our guest of honor this evening. He has much wisdom to impart.” Hunter took a bow to another round of applause before sitting back down.

Duterte settled in to deliver his speech. As we celebrate tonight, let us also look to the future…

Hunter turned toward Cheryl. “What do you see in your future, Cheryl?”

“Listen to the speech,” she muttered, staring ahead. “You’re being disrespectful.”

…the Philippines will strengthen its ties not only with Washington, but also Beijing…

“Would you prefer to be tied up by an American or a Chinaman?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she hissed.

“Oh, so you do speak Americanese?”

“Just shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Together, we can promote peace, stability, and the advancement of all people.

A polite round of applause signaled the end of the speech. The Vice President walked off the stage, shaking hands with a bunch of people he didn’t know or care much about.

Mr. Zhang rose from his seat with a slight bow. “Ambassador Underhill, it was a pleasure meeting you. Ambassador Chen is expected back from Beijing tomorrow, and he’ll be in touch with you soon.”

Hunter rose and mimicked him. “I look forward to meeting with him.”

After some more yada yada, Hunter looked over to Cheryl like a boy wanting to escape a creepy event forced on him by creepy parents. “Can we go now?”

Cheryl and Hunter made their way through the dispersing crowd, she stopping for goodbye hugs with those he didn’t recognize—many of them servers—he for handshakes with those he’d just met and a few who acted more like fans he’d never met.

“So, how did you think it went?” Hunter asked as they made their way out of the ballroom and into the lobby.

“Better than expected.”

“Wow, good to know that my secretary has so much confidence in my abilities.”

“You were drunk for a while there.”

“That wasn’t drunk,” Hunter replied, stopping mid-stride. “That was my Drunken Master impression.”

He launched into a wobbly martial arts stance, arms flailing as he mimicked Jackie Chan’s iconic, tipsy moves. “Wah-cha!” he exclaimed, punctuating it with exaggerated chops and spins. Mid-pose, he froze and looked at her. “You’re a Jackie Chan fan, right?”

Cheryl folded her arms. “Not really. And you’re ridiculous.”

Hunter straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. “Ridiculous, but effective. You can’t argue with results.”

Cheryl shook her head. “I’m going to regret this job, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” he said, offering his arm.

She ignored his offer and made her way toward the exit, the click of her heels brisk. Hunter trailed after her, captivated by the hypnotic bounce of her ass with each scurrying step she took.

 

 

Chapter 17
Inspection Time

 

 

Elena crossed her legs toward Hunter, turning to look at him. “So, you like?”

Hunter shook himself out of his entranced state and turned to meet her eyes. “Yeah, I can live with that.”

“And save our country from China?” she asked, leaning closer to him.

“Is this my reward for doing so?”

“This isn’t a reward,” she replied, drawing him closer to her. “This is Filipino hospitality, that’s all.”

Hunter snapped back to business, leaning away from her. “Elena, the movie you recommended, The Ambassador. So I’ve watched one and a half episodes, and…why do all the characters look like everyone I’ve met in real life here? Like Miss Rios, she looks just like you. Same with the maid, she looks just like Mariposa.”

Elena laughed, tilting her head. “So, do you think Miss Rios looks beautiful?”

“Yes, but she looks just like you.”

“Maybe I’m a movie star also?”

“Are you?”

“No, of course not,” she chuckled with a flattered expression. “I’m too busy with this business. Maybe I have a twin? Who is a movie star?”

“Do you?”

“No, I’m the only daughter, out of five,” she answered, tugging at his tie. “Is she prettier than me?”

“The two of you look… no!”

“Correct answer, Ambassador Underhill,” she said, running her hand over his chest. “Did you want to boom boom her?” she asked, her brows bouncing twice as she tapped her fingers against his chest.

Normally, he’d make his move. Instead, he shifted in his seat. “Yeah, boom boom,” he replied, removing her hand from his chest. “So why does the maid in the movie look just like Mariposa?”

“Oh, we Filipinas all just look very beautiful, don’t you think? We all look the same?”

“You all look similar, but not all the same.”

“True,” Elena replied, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “But I think there are some archetypes that we fit into. It’s very easy for us to find actors who match certain looks. Filipina beauty has, um, patterns, you could say,” she finished, fluttering her fingers into the air.

“I can see that,” Hunter admitted, trying to push his wariness and skepticism aside. “But it’s uncanny. The resemblance isn’t just close, it’s exact. Even the guy looks like me, but with blond hair.”

Elena rubbed her legs together, leaning closer to him. “You know you’re very handsome, right?”

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said, forcing himself to break out of her hypnotic gaze.

“He’s very handsome too. That’s why he’s in the movie and gets to do, you know, boom boom,” she said, pounding her fist into his chest.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said, his mind spinning as she grabbed onto one of his pecs.

“Maybe they took photos of us and created robots just like us,” she whispered.

Mariposa returned, wearing her school uniform. “All done, Mrs. Aquino,” she said, her fingers playing with the hem of her skirt.

“Good, good,” said Elena, turning back to Hunter. “I want to check on Mariposa’s work around the house.”

“That’s not necessary. Everything’s been perfect.”

She arched an eyebrow, her smile tight. “Ambassador Underhill, you shouldn’t tell me how to do my job.”

Hunter raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

Elena pulled a white glove from her purse, slipping it on a hand. “If we’re charging premium prices, we maintain premium standards. No exceptions.” She stood and gestured for him to follow. “And Mariposa is new, so the inspection is necessary.”

Hunter and Mariposa followed her into the dining room, watching nervously as Elena conducted her inspection like a sergeant inspecting a barrack.

She pulled out a chair and crouched to inspect under the table, running her gloved hand along the underside.

When she stood, she held up her glove, revealing a faint smudge of dust on the fingertip. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Mariposa,” she said, her tone even but firm, “guests don’t just see what’s in front of them. They feel it. Understood?”

Mariposa nodded quickly, her hands twisting in front of her. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll redo it.”

Elena gave a curt nod that kept Hunter silent. “Good. Let’s move on.”

Elena scanned the kitchen. The counters gleamed under the lights, every surface pristine. The sink was empty, not even a droplet in the basin. She opened the fridge, then a few cabinets. Not a single item was out of place.

“It’s too clean,” she said, breaking the silence.

Mariposa stiffened. “I—”

“It looks hardly used,” Elena interrupted, circling the teak island, sliding her gloved fingers along its surface. “The kitchen isn’t a showroom, save that for the dining room.” She opened a drawer, glanced at its neatly arranged contents, then closed it. “The kitchen should always be cozy—warm enough to encourage intimacy and vulnerability.

How true, thought Hunter, recalling Mariposa standing at the sink, her back to him as she washed dishes. There was something unguarded about her then, the clatter of dishes and the rush of water drawing him in like a siren song. She seemed at ease, completely unaware of how fully she held his attention.

“How you use it reveals everything about you,” Elena continued, pulling a mango from a basket in the corner. She squeezed it gently, then brought it to her nose to check its ripeness. “Your priorities. Your habits. Your temperament.” She placed the mango slightly off-center on the island, then pulled a small carving knife from a drawer and set it beside the fruit with deliberate precision. “A person’s soul is laid bare in their kitchen. Don’t you agree, Ambassador?”

Hunter straightened like a schoolboy called on. “So, what are you saying?” he asked, thinking of the piles of dishes and cluttered counters he’d have if his maid didn’t tidy up after him. “That a messy kitchen is a sign of a good soul?”

“Not messy,” Elena said, pulling two plates from the cabinet and setting them on the island next to the mango. She glanced at Hunter. “A disorderly kitchen shows carelessness and inefficiency. An inability to follow through. Nobody wants to cook in cluttered space.”

Hunter winced, recalling the time his mother scolded him after his pet goldfish died from neglect. He never did get the puppy he wanted.

“The ideal kitchen feels lived in,” she said, turning the faucet on and off, leaving droplets in the basin. “It leaves traces of hard, messy work.” She draped a tea towel over the sink faucet. “Like the faint aroma of spices…” She nudged the spice jars out of alignment. “A kitchen should never look and smell like a hospital.”

She unfolded a towel, draping it across the island countertop. “These aren’t imperfections—they’re proof the home has a heartbeat,” she added, patting her chest. “They show someone cared enough to create something familiar yet unique.”

She glanced at Hunter. “A spotless kitchen is sterile—a dead space. It tells me the people who live here are either too lazy or too afraid to create something of their own. That they’ve never known real intimacy.”

Hunter frowned, but Elena didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned to Mariposa with a motherly expression. “A good kitchen is honest. It reflects the person who uses it: the rhythm of their lifestyle, their generosity, their soul.” Her attention shifted back to Hunter. “Mariposa is a good soul, isn’t she?”

Hunter was caught off guard because he was in schoolboy mode, daydreaming about his teacher undressing.  He nodded with an apologetic glance at Mariposa, trying to forget how he had treated her. “Yes—she is.”

Elena softened, turning her attention to Mariposa. “Then let your kitchen reflect that. You have nothing to hide. A good soul isn’t meant to be hidden—it’s meant to leave traces.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They finished reviewing the first floor, Elena granting her approval with terse nods and faint smiles.

“Come,” she said, leading them up the staircase. “The master suite.”

Elena stepped inside, making her way through the room. She rubbed the curtains between her fingers, checked the glass of the balcony doors for stains, and stopped at the bed headboard. Her fingers brushed the surface before bringing it up to sniff it.

She straightened and looked at Hunter like a mom confronting her son for hiding her panties under his mattress. Hunter blushed a hint, his expression similar to that time he was alone with his hot aunt.

“Ambassador Underhill,” Elena asked, “why is the bedroom the second, and not the most intimate space in a home?”

Hunter hesitated because the first thought that came to mind was that it’s where he jerks off and fucks a lot of women, and he wasn’t sure if saying that would be appropriate. Jesus Christ, didn’t realize a hospitality lesson could be harder and deeper than the philosophy course I took at Princeton, he thought as he racked his mind for an answer.

Elena turned to Mariposa. “Do you know the answer?”

Mariposa glanced at Hunter, then looked down. “Is it… intimate because he likes to do boom-boom here?”

“Correct,” said Elena, settling onto the couch and crossing her legs. “If the dining room is a stage to showcase what you want others to see, and the kitchen is the window into the soul…” She patted the seat beside her, signaling Hunter to sit. “Then what does the bedroom reveal about a person?”

It reveals that I’m a horny mofo who likes fucking horny fuck toys, Hunter thought as he sat down like a robot. Meanwhile, his fuck toy thought the same about him.

Elena glanced at the grand circular bed, gesturing toward it. “This here is where the soul performs on a private stage. This is where the soul collides and negotiates with the public persona.”

The fuck is she talking about, asked Hunter to himself. This is where my cock collides into tight wet brown pussy.

I don’t think the ambassador negotiates with anyone, scoffed Mariposa to herself.

Elena turned to Hunter, who seemed lost in thought. “Ambassador, it’s just like diplomacy, isn’t it?”

Hunter nodded, forcing himself to focus. Jesus Christ, he considered. I wouldn’t have signed up for this novel if I’d known I’d have to think this hard.

“The dining room is where you tell the media what you want them to hear—presenting the image and story you want others to believe.”

I should’ve taken the acting gig instead of working for this author, Hunter grumbled to himself, rubbing his temple. This is making my head spin.

“The kitchen? That’s your private conference room, where you reveal your true intentions.”

His intention is to boom-boom me into the next universe, mused Mariposa, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Can we just get this over with?

“And the bedroom…” Elena let the words hang, her eyes locking onto Hunter’s. “The bedroom is where the negotiations happen. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Did she just turn my entire career into a sex metaphor? Hunter blinked, trying to keep up.

“Yeah, yeah… that makes sense,” he managed to say, though his head was still spinning.

“The point is, ambassador, the dining room is where a Filipina woman shows her appreciation.  The kitchen is where she expresses her love. And the bedroom is where she explores her love for you.”

So do I get to boom boom in this scene or not?, Hunter wondered.

Oh God, another boom boom scene, thought Mariposa, hiding her disgust as she glanced at Hunter with a pressed smile.

“I can see that you’ve done a very good job at setting the stage, Mariposa” said Elena, looking at the crisply made bed. “A well-made bed is critical to smooth negotiations,” she continued, taking off her glove. “Nobody wants to come home to a messy bed, right?” She dangled the glove before letting it drop onto the floor. “Studies show that a messy bed and room is bad for sleep.”

“Yes ma’am, and I agree. And thank you, ma’am,” said Mariposa in a hurried voice, moving in quick paces to pick up the glove.

“Are you good at boom boom?” Elena asked Mariposa as she rose up from a crouch.

“I… I don’t know, ma’am,” holding onto the glove like it was gross for a moment before scurrying over to the wastebasket.

Elena adjusted her posture, returning her gaze to Hunter. At this point, he was dumbfounded by the conversation.

“Is she good at boom boom?” Elena asked him in a flat voice, pulling her hair into a ponytail before letting it tumble back down over her shoulders.

“Yes?”

“Okay then,” said Elena, waving for Mariposa to come closer, patting Hunter’s lap. “Mariposa, show me how you do boom boom with the Ambassador.”