“Do you wanna get out of here?” she asked, Yuengling on her breath.
“Do the Steelers have more Super Bowl wins than any other team?” he responded, already putting on his jacket.
As they were kissing, she slid her hands down his torso, reaching for his belt buckle. After undoing it, she unbuttoned his jeans and slowly, slowly slid his zipper down.
“Uh-oh,” he sighed into her ear in mock horror, “Kennywood’s open.”
“Remember,” she hissed, whip in hand, “the safe word is pierogi.”
“Jeet yet?" she asked.
“No, Joo?” her date, this girl from Squirrel Hill she met in line at Giant Eagle, responded slyly.
They went down on each other for the rest of the night, then went to Pamela’s for breakfast the next morning. But not the one in the Strip District, that’s always packed.
“Jiminy Christmas,” he whispered in awe from beneath the sheets, “you’re wetter than the Monongahela.”
“Wetter than the Monongahela, the Ohio, and the Allegheny,” she corrected him seductively.
And with that, he finished. Nothing is hotter than a woman who can name all three rivers.
“Here we go,” he said, tearing open the condom wrapper.
“Hurry up,” his Grindr date, a hipster from Lawrenceville, urged; “Hearing you say ‘Here we go’ got me all excited.”
“Are you a dirty little jagoff?” she teased, “who’s my dirty filthy jagoff?”
Her words hurt, but he liked it. He liked that she was icier than an IC Light in the Heinz Field parking lot on an overcast Sunday in January.
“Me,” he answered, relishing every syllable; “I’m your dirty little jagoff.”
She rubbed him through his pants and sighed into his ear, “Lemme raise that Jolly Roger.”
“Primanti’s! Primanti’s! Primanti’s!”
“What? That’s not the safe word,” she snapped, whip still in hand, “but I could go for a chipped ham with cheese.”
“But not from the one in the Strip District,” he said.
“Yeah, that one is always packed,” she agreed.