The Gluten-Intolerant Have No Place in the Motherland.

The other night, I engaged in what was probably the strangest scene I’ve ever participated in.  I beat a man using nothing but pasta.  While wearing a Soviet military uniform.

It stemmed from a conversation years ago.  A friend of mine was completely snockered and said to me, “I would let you top me using nothing but pasta.” He said this knowing that I don’t switch at all. But the idea intrigued me, and I saw it as an opportunity to spread the strange. It fermented in my head.

Eventually I realized a problem: His play style is typically very resistance-oriented. Spaghetti bondage won’t hold anybody. It wouldn’t work, and I told him as much. He gnawed on that for a while. His solution: “I won’t resist as long as you’re wearing a Soviet military uniform.”

I looked online, and all I saw were two categories of uniforms: authentic ones there were over a grand total, and cheap flimsy costumes that looked like crap. So this whole scene went on the back burner, and I nearly forgot about it. At one point I started looking again, and I finally found a uniform I could groove with. At a military surplus store in the Ukraine. But it was the real thing, and the price was far more reasonable. Shipping was $40. Thankfully it fit well the first time. Foreign sizes are, um, foreign.

At that point, it was time to walk down the pasta aisle and laugh maniacally at the possibilities. Got a few looks there.

Unfortunately, some things didn’t pan out. The linguine flogger, spaghetti bondage, and pasta collar were all too flimsy, regardless of type of pasta and cooking time used. Grrr. Cheap capitalist pasta. The quality is nowhere near what we had in the Old Country.

I emailed him a picture with the subject line “Soon.” just to taunt him a bit: soon

This scene was to happen at a public party.  When we were about to start, I got in uniform and headed over to the play area.  Plenty of friends knew something worth watching was going to happen, but they had no idea what.

In my fake Russian accent, I had him strip to his underwear and get on a spanking bench.  Walking around in front of him, I rubbed a cooked lasagna noodle on his arm just so he would see what I was about to use.  I walked around behind him and hit his ass with it a few times.  It gave a surprisingly loud whack and actually had some sting to it.  The noodle held up for about half a dozen hits.  Thankfully, I brought reinforcements.  I yelled, “FEEL THE WRATH OF MY SOVIET GLUTEN!”

At this point, people were making a mass entrance to the play area to see what the yelling was about.  Plenty of peoples’ brains got fried.  Knowing I don’t switch, they saw me topping someone.  Using pasta.  In a Soviet uniform.  “Wait, is that… Is he… What???”

After some more lasagna impact, I took another lasagna noodle and stood beside him, facing the same direction he was.  Bringing it down in front of his face with both hands, I went lower to his neck, pulled back, and started choking him with it.  (I barely cooked the lasagna until it was just flexible in order to maintain some level of strength.)  To my surprise, it held up, even when I was using a solid amount of pressure.

After the lasagna strangling, I took a handful of gnocchi and stood in front of him, holding my hand out so he could see what I had.  After a couple seconds, I hollered, “GNOCCHI!” and immediately threw them in his face.  Getting behind him, I started pelting his ass with them individually.  They were rather stingy, which made me happy; I was initially worried he wouldn’t feel much.  One of the gnocchi went squarely down his crack and into his underwear, and everyone cheered.  At that point, I realized the entire party (over 100 people) was there watching.  A barrage of gnocchi ensued.

I once again stood in front of him with another cooked lasagna noodle.  I said, “You are seeing this noodle?  Is not very sturdy.  Does not hold up well.  MUCH LIKE YOUR AMERICAN CAPITALISM!”  Then I backhand-slapped him in the face with the noodle.

Now it was time for some marks.  Going back around in front of him, I took a dry lasagna noodle and broke it into four pieces as he watched.  Making a fist, I put one piece between each finger, effectively making a lasagna claw.  “Freddy Kreuger was sexy bitch.” I said.  I then ran my makeshift knives all over his back.  He reacted pretty intensely at first, so I eased up and kept going.  After just a few minutes of this, he had all sorts of dark lines crossing his back.

Now it was time for the finale.  I told him to get off the spanking bench and kneel.  I then took a dry manicotti and stuck it out of the fly of my pants.  I got in front of him and bellowed, “SUCK MY MANICOTTI!” He looked like he was about to bust out laughing, but he did it.  I then yelled, “AM BRINGING SEXY BACK!  DA!”  Again, the crowd cheered.

Retrieving something from my bag, I had him stand.  No longer yelling, I said, “Glorious comrade, have survive many tribulation.  Motherland is very proud.  Presenting you now with great honor- membership in noble order.  Peoples’ Order Of Pasta (P.O.O.P.)”  With that, I put this around his neck:

Pasta Medal 3

Afterward, my newly re-indoctrinated comrade and I posed for a picture:

aftermath

And yes, that is a banana in my holster.  That way, I have instant aftercare at my hip.

I’m happy with how this all panned out.  While some of the things I had planned didn’t work out, there was still a lot I was able to do.  We had fun and got a ton of compliments afterward.  It was years in the making, but it was very worth it.  Well done, comrade.