I Ordered a Meat Lovers Pizza. You Can Guess What Happened Next.

The delivery man added his own special sauce.

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Original illustration by Eduardo

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For the past month, I have ordered a pepperoni pizza to my apartment every Tuesday and Friday at the same time: 7:30 p.m. Before that, I ordered pizza from Tony’s Pizzeria every day for two weeks straight. I had to. It was the only way to learn which days he was working.

Tony’s doesn’t just have the best pizza in Brooklyn; it also has my favorite delivery man. In an era of Uber Eats and Grubhub, I like how Tony’s is old school. You have to call up to order—Tony yells at you for taking too long to order no matter how quickly you do—and the delivery man is Tony’s nephew, not some random dude. Apparently, Tony likes to keep his business in the family.

But the best part of Tony’s is that the deliverymen have to wear these slutty, little uniforms. Orange short shorts with 4-inch inseams. A t-shirt with a cartoon of Tony, with this big cheesy smile on his face, throwing two pizza doughs up in the air simultaneously. Matching orange suspenders and a trucker hat that reads: I ❤️ PIZZA.

The first time I opened the door to see Rocco (he had a little name tag—all the deliverymen at Tony’s do), I was livid. Not with Rocco, but with myself. I had just smoked a joint, and it looked like it. My hair was disheveled. My eyes were squinty and red. I was wearing my most stained shirt. And before me stood an Italian work of art; Michelangelo couldn’t have sculpted a more perfect man.

His hairy thighs were the first thing I saw. Gazing up those gams, I finally understood why they’re called quadriceps. I could see each of the four muscles, distinct and pronounced. And they were stuffed into those short shorts like a sausage in a casing. And his sausage looked massive. Just pressed up against his zipper—moose knuckle on full display.

His shirt was a size too small. When he handed me the pizza, his biceps flexed, and I thought his sleeves would rip, though they didn’t. And his square jawline. Even with his beard, you could tell it was sharp, nearly perfect right angles.

He really was my type of man. And since our first meeting, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about him. Me sucking that sausage. His beard tickling my ass cheeks as he licked my hole. Him throwing me down on the bed, flipping me over, and stuffing his dick inside me.

He’s why I’ve gained a good chunk of weight this month. I can’t stop ordering (and eating) pizza.

I could have sworn he was flirting with me the last time he delivered pizza.

“When are you gonna switch up your order?” he teased. “You know we offer more than pepperoni.”

“What do you recommend, Rocco?” I said his name whenever I could. Rocco is such a stupidly sexy name.

“Well, we have buffalo chicken, sausage, meat lovers…” He slowed down at the last recommendation.

“I do love meat,” I replied.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” he replied, not breaking eye contact.

I couldn’t say how many hours I replayed that interaction—if I was reading into something that wasn’t there. But I concluded he was flirting with me. You just wouldn’t say something like that if you were not.

So I devised a plan. I would order my pizza right before closing, guaranteeing I was the last delivery of the evening, and invite Rocco in for a slice. Was that weird? Maybe, but I think that his response would be telling. If he says yes, it’s clear he wants to fuck, or at the very least, get his dicked suck.

So this past Tuesday, at 9:55 p.m., I ordered a meat lovers pizza. I wasn’t sure what to wear, but I went for casual—basketball shorts and a tank top with open sides. It was one of those looks that could be either gay or straight, depending on the person wearing it.

My doorbell rang, and I rushed to open the door. There was Rocco, smiling before me. “You took my advice, Meat Lover.” Singular, not plural, like he was calling me a meat lover.

I grabbed the cash from my pocket but paused before handing it over. Am I really about to ask this man if he wants to come in and have a slice? Is that normal and friendly, or super fucking weird? I felt sweat dripping from my pits down the sides of my torso. I just had to ask—nothing to lose by asking. You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take or whatever.

“Do you actually wanna…” I couldn’t get the words out. “Do you actually wanna?” Rocco stood there, unblinking, waiting for me to finish my goddamn sentence.

“CAN I SUCK YOUR DICK?”

I placed my hands over my mouth. I couldn’t believe I said it. The words just shot out of me. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Rocco stared at me blankly. Please, for all that is holy, say something.

“Sure,” he said, walking inside my apartment.