Cherry pie as a pick-up tool–one out of one Susans report that it works wonders #cherrypiecure

HOLIDAY Filthy Friday (the Wednesday edition) Feature aka Jane has Christmas issues and solves them with orgasms episode 2019-8! In Cherry Pie Cure, Susan finds out her husband is a cheating rat-fuck bastard on Christmas Eve. Don’t feel sorry for her. Turns out that a) he had a teeny-weeny penis and b) didn’t actually know what to do with it. And I GAVE HER THE BEST FUCKING LOVER EVER.

So the only thing you really know about this book is that it’s written in blog form.

Complete with comments, trolls, and spam.

In this blog post, you just get a little taste of Susan’s future boy toy, Reza.

The house is empty again, but… He. Loved. My. Pie!!!



posted by susan-oh-susan / march 15 at 7:20 pm / uncategorized / 16 comments

The house is empty again, but Marcella showed up first thing in the morning and dragged me to a yoga class. Like, literally dragged me. There was physical dragging to get me out of bed. Into the shower. And out the door.

Not that I was depressed and planning to go back to sitting on the couch and chain-smoking.

I just didn’t want to get out of bed.

And I didn’t respond to her texts.

And so she panicked.

Because she’s a good friend. I love you, Marcella. But you’re crazy.

And the yoga class was crazy. I’ve tried yoga on and off over the years at the Y and places like that, and it’s never done very much for me… other than make me feel awkward, inflexible, and lumpy. Incidentally, I don’t think an exercise routine developed by half-starved men in India is particularly suitable to short, curvy, booby white women. Is that racist? I don’t mean to be: I’m just saying—my body does not bend that way and it does not want to bend that way, and my breasts get in the way of everything.

I am now blogging about my breasts. Look what you’ve done.

(I blame Marcella. And last week’s drunk post. Not the rest of you, so much.)

The yoga class was crazy, like I said—crazy breathing and panting and some stretching, but mostly panting and weird meditating, and during the panting, I had inappropriate thoughts and during the meditating, I had really inappropriate thoughts, and so as soon as Marcella dropped me back at home, I showered again and dressed and went to Safeway.

I thought I should buy some fruit and vegetables. Because, I have a new resolution. The kids are gone, but I’m going to cook good meals for myself.

So I got this and that, and then strolled casually down Aisle Three, just because, and then got in line at Cash Seven. And then quickly switched to Cash Nine.

“You’re finally back!”



He was so happy to see me.

Do you know what he did?

He went out of his cash cubby, around to where I was standing and gave me a hug.

This incredible, full-body, arms all around me, hug of…

Ok, so it was totally, totally non-sexual.

But it was also totally, totally nothing like Tyler hugging me.

He’s not as tall as Tyler, by the way. Much taller than John and Cody. And me. But not the giant Tyler is.

“I’m probably not allowed to hug customers,” he said, finally letting go of me. “There’s a very thick employee handbook. It includes a page on how to wash your hands after you use the toilet. Also, which side to step to when you need to make way for a customer in a narrow aisle. So it probably includes a page on not hugging customers. This confusing society being what it is.”

He has the most beautiful voice, by the way. Lilty and accenty and musical, but totally clear, like…


“That was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he said, going back to his cubby. “The pie, I mean. Thank you so much. It was more delicious than… if you promise to never, ever tell another soul, I will tell you it was better than anything my mother ever fed me.”

Ok, so sweet, right, but I totally had tears in my eyes and a punch in the gut, because he was comparing me to his mother.

And of course he would.

It’s hard to tell with some men—with Middle Eastern and Mediterranean men in particular right? But he looked so young. So much younger than me, anyway.

Lumpy, dumpy middle-aged Susan with a crush on a twenty-year-old stock boy.

Ok, he’s a little older than that. He looks older than my kids.

But it might be the facial hair.

He doesn’t have a beard, by the way. Just a lot of… well, you know, that George Michael look. He’s just shaved that morning, probably, but the hairs are already amassing and fighting under the skin, and by the evening, there will be a bit of a scruff, and oh, what would it feel like to rub my cheek against that scruff?

He rang my groceries through. Then frowned.

“You didn’t buy any canned cherries this time,” he said. “That makes me so sad.” He laughed. “See? You give a man a slice of pie once…”

I flushed.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asked, still laughing. “Please don’t be. I am so grateful and so happy. It was such a sweet thing to do.”

And he came out of the cashier cubby again and hugged me again.

“Now, go. Before I get fired for hugging customers. Or all the other customers start to expect it, ha ha ha.”

I went.






And I spent the rest of the day sitting on the couch… not doing anything… just thinking.

So. Gooey.


16 comments on The house is empty again, but… He. Loved. My. Pie!!!:

ilikeherbooty-full: Please feel free to blog about your breasts as often as you like. Also, how tall do you like them, Susan?

ilikeherbooty-full: I mean how tall do you like your dudes, not breasts. Although if you tell me what sorts of breasts you like, that opens up all sorts of other fantasizing possibilities for me. ;P

BeautifulThingsEveryday: Jesus, Jerome. Her ex is basically a hobbit. What, five-foot-five?

susan-oh-susan: He’s at least five-foot-nine! You always shrink him!

BeautifulThingsEveryday: More like five-foot-seven in thick-soled shoes. And he’s the one who always calls me an Amazon.

ilikeherbooty-full: How tall are you, Marcella?

BeautifulThingsEveryday: None of your business, dickweed.

ilikeherbooty-full: If you start to insult my penis, you will never, ever, ever get to see it. I promise.

BeautifulThingsEveryday: OMG, Susan, boot this guy off here. Please. And this reminds me, you never told us how you delivered the pie in the first place.

susan-oh-susan: It was so lame! I skulked around the store. Then I saw which cash he was working. Then I checked out through it… but I was too chicken to give it to him… I took my groceries to the car… then I snuck back in, from the back, and put it on the belt when his back was turned, and ran out of the store as quickly as I could.

goddessofvictory: Aw.

mommyshidinginthebathroom3: I would have done the same thing.

FemmeFataleFun: In theory, I would have Frenched him while giving it to him. In practice… yeah, skulking.

susan-oh-susan: Thank you. I felt so lame.

sugar&spice76: It was still brave, honey.

ilikeherbooty-full: By the way, Susan, in addition to blogging about your breasts as often as you like, please go back to Safeway and get more cherries. And make the stock boy more pie. And feel free to send the left-overs to me. Thank you kindly.

Find out more: Cherry Pie Cure: Cast of Characters and More

(including fabulous paper)

+you can search for buy links at


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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.

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