Hi, my name is Steve, and I am a Twinkie® addict

A while back, I intimated that my brothers call me "Twinkie," and I have been meaning to explain why that is.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a thing for Twinkies. And I don't mean just a casual thing. I mean a richer-or-poorer, death-do-us-part, my-dick- gets-hard-with-just-the-mention-of-your-name thing.

It really was almost sexual for me, too, the Twinkie-eating; there was something strangely erotic about that soft, moist, golden sponge cake (Since I'm not gay, I'll skip the part about the creamy white goo). And it felt naughty to flip the Twinkie over and see those holes at the bottom. Knowing that they used the holes to inject the vanilla cream was akin to watching a girl masturbate without her seeing you: You were privy to a dirty secret!

Mom used to keep a box of Twinkies in the kitchen pantry. Third shelf from the top, left side.

I loved that box. I used to dream about that box during gym class while frozen in agony between my 3rd and 4th sit-ups. And as soon as I burst through the front door after school, I made a beeline for that box, hungrily grabbing for its cellophane-wrapped, sugary, cream-filled heroin with my plump, trembling fingers.

I was a fat kid. I could eat. REALLY eat. And unaffected by "adult" concepts, like stopping eating when you are so full you could puke, I just kept on stuffing my face until someone dragged me away from the table, usually by force. So if left to my own devices, I could devour an entire box of Twinkies in one sitting, and did a couple of times. Hence, the need for some limits.

One Twinkie after school, one at lunch, one after dinner. That was the rule. And mom used to count the twinkies, too, to make sure I didn't cheat. But let me tell you, there were plenty of sleepless nights where I stood, staring salivatingly at that third shelf, conjuring up ways to talk my way out of having the crime pinned on me:

"Well, mom, I don't like to rat on my brothers, but I'm pretty sure I saw white creamy stuff on Chris's pillow."

"Did you buy a dog? 'Cause I heard dogs loooove Twinkies!"

"Dad's been acting really strange lately. And he seems to have packed on a few pounds. Maybe you ought to check his car for cellophane!"

"Don't they make something like 15 million Twinkies a day? I mean, how can we be SURE there were 12 Twinkies in that box to begin with? I'm serious, mom, I think we ought to write our congressman!"

I used to time myself. I could eat a Twinkie in 12 seconds, and that's when I wasn't in a hurry; when I was REALLY jonesing, I wasn't concerned about a second hand on a clock. But quickies weren't usually my style.

I liked to romance those sexy little things. I used to make love to my Twinkies. I would slowly bite the round, bulbous end, exposing a dime-sized, cream-filled hole in the middle, then languidly loll the golden baked perfection around in my mouth, sending my taste buds into a sensual nirvana, before gulping the first bit down.

Then I would turn to my half-naked Twinkie, beckoning me with her white creamy insides wide open, begging me to have my way with her.

And have my way I would.

I would plunge my fat juicy tongue into her glob of white sticky heaven, licking up, then down, then around, in slow, cursive letter o's, gently, deeply, probing her insides.

After greedily gulping down her sugary nectar, I would bite the Twinkie again, and again ravage her with my tongue, sucking and licking and slurping every drop of fluffy white goodness.

And then, when neither of us could stand it anymore, I would cram the remaining cake into my gaping mouth, closing my eyes, letting Hostess's orgasmic magic overload the Twinkie pleasure centers of my brain.

Ahem.

But none of that is why they call me Twinkie.

There was a way of skirting the one-Twinkie-after-dinner rule: I would simply forego my after-school Twinkie, and defer it until after supper.

On the fateful day in question, I had, in fact, skipped my after-school snack, and after a sickening, bilous batch of barely-edible beef stew, I pull two little slices of heaven out of the box on the third shelf.

The last two Twinkies left.

I finish one, and mom announces that we have to go to the store. Now. They are closing in a half hour, you see.

Mom grabs me by the collar and tosses me into the car. But I have the presence of mind to slip the uneaten Twinkie into my pocket. No WAY I am waiting until I get home to eat it.

Mom takes me downtown to to buy a new pair of school pants. She is always buying me new pants; my ever-expanding gut demands it.

"Oh no!" mom says as we walk through the store. "There's a hole in your ass!"

"What?"

"You ripped your pants! Right in the ass! How long have you been walking around that way?!"

"I dunno."

Mom hands me a perfectly hideous pair of powder-blue Chino's. "Try these on," she says.

I walk into a dressing room, drop my pants and start to put on the new ones. I lose my balance, and quickly plant a stubby, tree-trunk leg to the floor to catch myself. My foot lands right on my old pants; specifically, on the right-hand pocket containing the Twinkie. The squishy, sinking feeling is almost enough to make me cry: I killed it! What would Twinkie The Kid say?

I walk out of the dressing room in my stockinged feet, showing Mom the new pants. She tucks three fingers between the blue waistline and my bulging gut. "Perfect," she says.

Yeah, the pants were ugly, and mom knew it. But they met the two pants-buying criteria for the 11-year-old Steverino:

1. They fit; and,
2. They were under $10.

And #1 was optional.

"Go get your old pants," mom says. "Maybe I can fix them so your brother can wear them."

Not likely, unless "fixing them" involves drinking 6 wine coolers and impaling your thumb with a needle.

I throw the pants in the back seat, and we return home.

A couple of hours later, Chris and I are playing Nintendo, when The Urge kicks in.

My slutty tongue pops out, licking my puffy, fat-boy lips in search of another Twinkie fix. But I had already eaten my dessert....

Wait! I never ate it! It's still in the pocket of my old pants!

I rush out to mom's car and open the back door. It's sweltering in there. I frantically poke around the pockets, finally extracting the flat, yellow, plastic-wrapped Reason For My Existence.

I bring the Twinkie back inside, and grab a pair of scissors. I've done this before.

I cut off the top 1/2 inch of plastic wrap and begin to squeeze the compressed Twinkie into my mouth, bit by bit, lapping and gulping like a hungry swine.

"Ewwwwwww, GROSS!" Chris says.

I turn to look at him. The final glob of steaming hot Twinkie-pancake slips out of the plastic and onto the carpet. The dirty, dingy, old, hair-filled, hasn't-been-shampooed-since-the-Johnson-administration, carpet.

I scoop up the yellowish-white blob and eat it.

And my brother throws up.