"C'mon, baby, put it in your mouth," I say, caressing the top of Hayden's head.

"I don't know, bear," he says, staring at me hesitantly while grabbing the shaft, "it's bigger than I thought... and spongy. I don't think I can fit it in."

I grab his chin and give him a loving smile. "Just the tip, then."

Hayden squeezes it gently, making some of the translucent liquid seeps out of it. "And it's so moist, too."

The confidence in his eyes wavers as the pure girth of the mass between his hands taunts him. "Well, yeah. It's pretty hot. It's gonna leak for a while."

I can see him lick his lips in anticipation as he puts his face closer and closer. Just a few more inches. "It kinda smells funny," says Hayden.

He needs a little more prodding. I grab the back of his head and push him closer. "Babe, put it in your mouth before it gets soft. I thought you wanted this."

"No, no... I do!" he says with wavering in his voice. "But... I've never done this before."

"There's a first time for everything," I say. "I'm just glad to be here for your first time."

There's an audible gulp as Hayden closes his eyes in resolve. "Alright, here I come."

His meaty lips open with a line of dribble bridging the two. I pull his fair gently as I guide his open mouth to the tip of the brown stick. His tongue sticks out over his lower lips as he makes contact with the tip. He recoils while scrunching his face.

"It's super salty!" he says, wiping his tongue.

"Well, that's kinda the point," I say. "But, trust me, it's gonna be better when you put it in your mouth."

Hayden looks at me hesitantly, then back at my stick as I wave it playfully in front of him. "Okay, if you say so..." His soft lips part was as I once again gently led the tip toward his mouth. He maybe gets an inch deep before I feel him gag. Almost immediately he bites down, taking a chunk out of the tip, which he proceeds to spit on the floor.

"It's even worse!" yells Hayden between gags and hacks as I contain my laughter. Seeing the prissy "too good for fair food" Hayden bite down on a corn-dog for the first time is priceless. Well, he made me eat a marshmallow onion sandwich that one time, so, payback, bitch.

"Babe, it's just a corn dog. It ain't the end of the world."

"The fuck it is!" he yells. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't there supposed to be a fucking sausage inside the fried dough?"

"Of course! That's the point of a corn-dog. A dog in a corn, or something."

"Brother, my tongue didn't touch no sausage."

"Look, I know it isn't a Calabrian sausage, but..." I begin to say, but even a cursory glance at the "corn dog" reveals that what lies beyond the bread is...more bread. "Hey! There's no sausage in this bun!"

"No shit," says Hayden. "That's just a sponge full of oil. Hey, you!"

We are standing in the middle of the fairground, with food stands flanking us amidst mountains of garbage and radioactive barrels serving as in-impromptu chairs and tables. A thin man in a wife-beater—as yes, I know it's also called an undershirt, but this man literally looks like a wife-beater—thin mustache and gold chains around his neck squatting next to a food stand while drinking some murky brown liquid that I very much doubt it's sweet tea. And yes, of course he's wearing Adidas track pants. I don't know why you have to ask that when it's a given.

Of course, only someone as sketchy-looking as he could be the chef behind this horrible atrocity. And Hayden is about to rectify it as he makes a bee-line right towards him.

"Hey, you," says Hayden, waving the fried dough in front of the man. "You kinda forgot to put your sausage in my bun!"

The man's face is immutable. Which here means he doens't give two flying fucks. He takes a drag out of what I can only assume is the butt of a cigarette and blows the smoke right on Hayden's face. Hey! Only I can blow Hayden! Wait...

"No dog, very good," says the man in a vaguely Eastern European accent designed not to alienate anybody while also leaning on the stereotype of the sleazy European of dubious ethnic descent.

"What?" says Hayden, practically thrusting the fried stick on the man's face. "Not very good. Not very good, at all! A corn dog needs a dog to be a corn dog. It's in the name!"

The man grabs the fried dough, looks at it, and delivers it back as he lights up a new cigarette. "We don't sell corn dog. We sell fried hot dog bun. Easy mistake to make to stupid American eyes."

"That doesn't make any dietary or culinary sense!" yells Hayden. He squeezes the bun, making at least a few ounces of brown, murky liquid seep out of it. "If you fry bread, it's gonna absorb all the oil!"

The man looks at Hayden, then at the liquid falling onto the counter, then back at Hayden. He produces a dirty rag which he uses to soak up the oil. "It's good for body and soul. Bread good for you. It's delicacy in England. Every lass and lad eat fried bread."

Hayden opens his mouth to say anything, but nothing comes out. His mouth flaps a bit before backing down with a huff. "Well, only the Brits would make something so disgustingly bland as fried hot dog bread."

"Good. Eat like good British children, no refunds," says the man as he flicked his cigarette behind him. And for all accounts, that should've been it. But the man just has to turn around with the rag full of oil and squeeze it on the fryer to top it back. Okay, now I feel kinda bad for deep-throating my boyfriend with a piece of stale fried bread. Just kinda.

Hayden's eyes bulge, and if this were a cartoon, there would be an "awhooooa" sound with it. "The fuck you think you're doing?!"

The man nonchalantly continues to squeeze the rag, which he consequently uses to clean the sweat off his eyebrows. "Oil is expensive. Not everyone can be lazy fat American who invades other countries for oils for McDonalds and chicken nuggets. Oils is privilege, not right."

"When was the last time you changed the oil?" asks Hayden.

The man flicks the ashes once again, this time over the oil. "What do American say? If yellow, let mellow. If brown, let mellow."

"Well, that's only when we want to conserve water," I say.

"And I try conserve oil," says the man. "Now make like tree and fuck off."

Again, if this was a cartoon, there would be foam forming around Hayden's mouth. He's truly, incredibly pissed. But not bad-boy pissed. No, this is an advanced pissed, a pissed coming from deep inside his chef's pride, as if the mere act of calling this place a kitchen was an affront to all the gods of food. Maybe Demeter.

"Are you aware of the health risk your little stand presents?!" yells Hayden, drawing a small crowd. "I can overlook the trash, the flies, and even the radioactive waste. Hell, I can even tolerate the stale bread. But not changing oil? That's a bridge too far. That's an easy code violation that the Department of sanitation should-"

He doesn't even finish saying anything before an arm tries, and fails, to wrap around Hayden's shoulders, but his sheer size proves it impossible for the small weasel who owns said arm. Of course, it belongs to Dee Exposito.

"Hey, hey, hey, my friend," he whispers. "We ain't sayin' the S word here."

"Should?" I ask.

"No, babe," adds Hayden. "I think it's sani-"

"Ah, ah, ah," interrupts Dee as he turns around with Hayden. "What did I say? We ain't sayin' that word 'round these parts. You know what happens to snitches?"

"They get stitches?" I ask.

"Brother, they ain't even getting a coffin," says Dee with a toothless smile. "They gets an acid bath and a trip to New Mexico in a polyethylene barrel. Now, why don't youse mosey on over an' don't say that word ever again?"

"But-"

"We will," I say, grabbing Hayden's arm to pull him away. "Don't worry. Mum's the word."

"But, babe!"

"It isn't worth it," I say as we both haul ass away from the pair. "Besides, shitty fair food is part of the fair experience, after all."

"I take offense at you calling it food," adds Hayden. "But... yeah. Let's go to the petting zoo. At least you can't fuck that up."

Somehow, the fucked it up.

Well, to be fair, it is a petting zoo. You can pet the animals. That part they got right. What they didn't get right is the part that the animals were supposed to be at least rare or exotic. No, what we have is a pen with two dogs of dubious descent, a tabby cat, three pigeons that I think just flew up from outside, and a dead mouse, which most likely is the cat's lunch. No goat, or duck, or even a friendly miniature horse in sight. I can pet more animals by walking through a suburb!

A few kids are milling around with the dogs, petting them ad ruffling their fur, so at least they weren't aggressive.

We approach the edge of the enclosure where the cat is. Not sure if the fur will trigger my skin allergy, but hey, it's worth a shot. I'm about to pet the nice cat when someone slaps my hand away. The someone? Why, if it's not Mr. Wife-beater himself.

"3$ to pet pussy," says the man, with a new cigarette in his mouth.

"What? Just for a cat?" I ask. "Fuck off. I can pet a cat on the streets, for free!"

"Then pet free pussy," says the man, blowing the smoke on my face now. I feel special.

"Aren't you supposed to be manning the fried...things booth?" says Hayden. "I hope you at least wash your hands between booths."

"Sweat gives extra salty flavor," says the man. "Now, 3$ and you can touch pussy."

I put my hand over Hayden's chest, rubbing it to calm it down. "Slow down, bronco. It ain't worth it. And neither is the money. Do you have any other animals? Like, I dunno, a kid, or some kind of foal, or something?"

The man looks at me from top to bottom while taking a drag out of his cigarette. "You want kid, I have kid. Alexei!"

A literal kid, dressed exactly like the man, down to the pencil mustache, jumps from behind a bale of hale, with two twigs taped to his forehead. The kid runs at us on all fours while making sheep sounds. It's not even the right animal!

"I'm baby goat!" says the kid with the same accent as the man. "I eat aluminum and shit small circles. Pet me."

"Yeah, I'm not petting some random kid," I say. I grab Hayden's arm and begin to pull away. "Babe, let's go somewhere else."

The man tosses the cigarette aside, creating a fire hazard, but with an ounce of emotion behind his body language. "You drive hard bargain. 2$, take or leave."

"Leave!" I yell.

"Okay, okay. 1$, and you can pet me as well."

"Why would I pet you?" I ask. "Also, your cat is escaping."

Sure enough, who would've thought a simple pen would contain a cat for more than whatever it is that is keeping the cat's attention span for more than a few minutes? Not the man, it seems, as he jumps the fence to catch the cat.

We take that as our cue to leave.

I have to say that, so far, this date has been a disappointment...and I think it's about to become a disaster.

Not because the tossed cigarette is starting to make a small, if uncontrolled fire. No, that's not it.

It's because, just as we leave the petting zoo, we are confronted by the worst two people we could've encountered on a date.

Okay, I suppose Mechahitler and MegaMao Zhedong would be the two worst people to see out on a date, but Leighlay McKenzie and Haiden...whatever-his-name is are a close second.