Spin the Bottle – March Smut (2014)

At Spin the Bottle tonight, I will read my third ever smut piece. I’m calling it “Foodie Sex.”

I was recently dumped. Or something. It’s difficult to discern what happened exactly, since it all happened over text message, but one of my OkCupid dates self-imploded quicker than I thought possible. And about two weeks into our “relationship,” I realized we had never  truly eaten together. In the short time that I knew this person, we were physically intimate three times and I consumed this short list of food in his presence:

  • one-quarter of an apple
  • three slices of cheese
  • probably about four crackers
  • a chocolate-covered salted caramel infused with cannabis
  • two hunks out of a wedge of brie
  • three or four spreadings of an olive tapenade
  • a few more crackers
  • a bite of a chocolate chip cookie
  • a hunk of dark chocolate with almonds

That was over the span of three “dates.” The more I thought about how he and I interacted, the more I realized how precious and sacred food is in a relationship.

For a couple of weeks while I was seeing this person, I was dating someone else too. The second guy and I ate frequently together: from food trucks, late night gourmet food at cocktail bars, hungover brunch where I was wiping up my yolks with  toast, at a fusion restaurant with copious amounts of beer and even though he and I were barely intimate, I still feel like I knew him better.

Eating alone is considered unhealthy for longevity, and my living situation often leaves me sitting in front of my iPad with a plate on my lap, staring blankly ahead of me. So I crave eating meals with others, I yearn for conversation about ingredients and cooking methods, and I want to share those intimate moments with everyone I meet. It makes sense that I would especially desire to share the intimacy of eating with the person I take on as my lover.

So this smut story is about food and sex and intimacy. And it includes a Seinfeld reference. Win!

Foodie Sex

There are some boys around whom you do not eat. Max was one of those boys. He had a body like a tree trunk: steady and unyielding and a furry layer of hair all over his body that I just loved to nuzzle my nose into. Really, I didn’t even need to eat, because when we were together, the sex was enough. Well, almost enough.

You know that episode of Seinfeld where George Constanza tries to create a perfect experience with sex, food, and sports? He’s dating a woman, but he’s bored with their sex life, so he tries to incorporate food into the lovemaking. He makes a sandwich in the kitchen, then convinces her to make out in there. As things are getting hot and heavy, he reaches up for a bite of his sandwich. Then he tries to turn the TV on to watch the game, but she notices and the whole thing is over. George cannot reach The Trifecta. Later, in the same episode, George discovers the perfect woman. She has a sensuous desire for pastrami and he can’t resist. Perhaps The Trifecta is still possible! With Max, I was never trying to achieve a trifecta, but the sandwich… that was something that could get me there. Just thinking about the mayonnaise, the meats slipping and sliding out of the bread as the hot peppers hit the back of my throat. Oh, that would be perfection.

Max and I never ate together, so every time before we fucked, I’d have to eat. I’d plan out my meals as soon as he’d ask me out. I never ate in front of him. I always ate before I left my house or after I left his, once I was completely out of sight. I’d eat anything and everything, something like truffle oil drizzled on slices of roasted potato, nachos topped with olives and beef and sharp cheddar cheese and guacamole and salsa, or some ice cream and cookies when I was feeling indulgent. But Max and I only put two things in our mouths when we were around each other: alcohol and ourselves.

Our arrangement was simple: hang out, get drunk, then fuck for two hours straight. Imagine if I had tried to add food to that! A classic Cosmopolitan magazine sex tip is to “slip a doughnut around his penis, and slowly eat it off.” As if that would work! Trying to add food into our weekly exchange of bodily fluids would have just complicated things. When you’re intimate with a person, physically, it’s simple to imagine them as nothing more than a slab of meat (yup, I intended that), prepared to take whatever you want to give them. Imbibing is one thing but ingesting, taking other items into your mouth in their presence—it creates a far more intimate environment. A man sticks his dick inside of me—Max would shove his hard dick inside of me—and I would be affected, profoundly and immediately. If we had shared food, he would have been separated from my profound and immediate experience of taking something inside of me. It would have indicated a deeper commitment to me, as a human being, and we weren’t there yet. Not even close.

Drinking alcohol would loosen me up, but the real thing that made me want to fuck was thinking about food. I would think about the food I ate right before. I would plan a meal to eat once I got home. He’d take me in his arms and kiss me, and I’d feel his arms wrap around me tightly, letting the first scent hit. First, it was his mustache, then the salt of man, which always made me think about French fries. Oh, I could easily make an aioli with some garlic and lemon. He’d kiss my lips, move down to my neck, then move to behind my ear, which always made me moan. Then I’d hear it: the crackling of a chicken frying in a pan, the hot oil hitting the egg and breadcrumbs, instantly crisping and browning. Could I get to the store in time before they close? Max would move on, to my collarbone, kissing the tops of my breasts. Once he hit my nipples, I was out of control and onto an arugula salad with a balsamic and orange dressing, crunchy walnuts, brie, and soft pears. I’d have to put in a special order with my CSA farm this week.

My shirt would come off first. Then he’d move down to my jeans to unbutton them, putting his warm mouth on my belly, moving closer to the hair that kept my nestled clit hidden and warm, like a soft bed of mushroom risotto, which Cafe Pettirosso does superbly. Then I’d get the feeling like after I’ve eaten just the right amount of my sister’s winter lentil soup with fresh sourdough bread, fuzzy in my centermost being. My body would heat up, and I’d grind on his cock, which of course was huge.

It only ever took about five minutes of making out for me to want to fuck. Then Max’s clothes would be off quicker than I could even get the rest of mine off. I always noticed how his skin was the same color as fresh pasta. I loved to touch myself as I imagined homemade fettuccine with fresh pesto sauce and parmesan cheese slathered in rich, rich olive oil. (A dish that sounds complicated but is quite simple if you take the time.) I loved to slide my hands all over my body, as I removed my clothes, waiting for Max’s mouth to return to my nipples, now excited and erect.

Sure, it sounds familiar. Not just the weekly meal planning, but maybe something like the donut on a dick suggestion. Well, it was different. Trust me. Cosmo sex tips involve ridiculous and dangerous suggestions, like “feeding each other ice cream in the dark”—um, I’m not doing that laundry!—and “cook dinner topless, applying a little tomato sauce to your nipple”—ew, ow, hot, no—then asking him to lick it off or shoving popsicles up your lady’s “vadge.” Never, no. No! This is not what I was thinking about as Max slapped my ass or breathed heavily into my ears while he crooked two fingers into my pussy, pressing into my softest nether regions, making me moan uncontrollably and see colors when I shut my eyes.

Despite our best efforts to “keep it casual,” only fucking and drinking until the wee hours of the morning and avoiding classic meal times such as morning, noon, and the hours between 6 and 10 pm, it didn’t work out. Chalk it up to my inexperience with casual dating or that he didn’t laugh at my jokes. Either way, it was never going to work out. Besides, a girl’s gotta eat.

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