Horse-flesh

The power elite rustle carnal derriere while being seated at the beautifully laid dinner table, not in the least aware of their cloying perspiration, rising proof of their humanity after all--Reaching it's musky crescendo and the chefs nostrils while she slips between them, bends to serve the appetizer plate--Lamprey a la Bordelaise--The flesh of the delicately prepared eel blending one repellant nature with another, flesh steeped in blood and vegetable stock, women steeped in greed and fine perfume--They dine, politely spitting out the pit of their political philosophy in-between sensual bites of their appetizer, and mediocrity.

The gastronomic table fetish of tender haricots and mesclun salad dressed with a glistening vinaigrette is immediately set upon by their sophisticated palates, their glossed, succulent lips, and their refined, well attended dentition. The feeding of the self and the other with bejeweled hand, jingling bracelets escalates, fingers to hungry mouths, pressing in face to face for an exchange of fluids, an abated kiss. Food and intimacy, the pitch of their feral exchange and gasconade wafts like steam and hammers, the stench of their arrogance slamming into sensibilities until hope drains like fluid from its ruined vessel, overpowering the finest promise, the most resolute despair, the most delicious cuisine-- Their entitlement enhancing itself beyond the olfactory properties of the now smoking grill.

Crystal glasses clink and chime, cutlery is chased about the table here and there, the men begin to shift their weight and suave bravado in this dance, growing evermore emboldened with each sip of fine wine--Wine that will be followed by strong spirits, a discreet rail of blow, and a shoo-in business deal. One hand up each evening gown, still, they find time to fondle their disregard for the lower classes, pinching an ass on the way through the kitchen, cupping a breast on their way to the john, their cunning barely perceptible by the candlelight's flicker and dimmer-switch technology.

Faking laughter, like orgasms, is obvious to all but the players--The upper-crust fillies coupled with the down-town American made nouveau riche blow-hards, suddenly asking for an extra linen napkin being as they lost their original cloth between pokes and jabs at the butter plate, bread basket, and the nubile food server---The world and it's great problems so very far removed from their egoist consciousness, protected from their crimes and their moral wrongs here in their private, ownership protected sanctuary. Yes, this is where they do their best undercover work, unrestrained, while still chewing the hostesses favorite main entree--Horse-flesh in a sickeningly sweet port wine and mushroom reduction sauce. As the guests swallow their cowardice, the race is somehow on--They dine unawares as I clean my knives, remembering names and faces. Timing in food, and in life, is everything. Tick-tock.