I’m sorry. The minute I find out a guy doesn’t like meat, or worse, is a vegetarian, my sex drive just goes out the fucking window. I don’t know what it is.
I know, I’m so backwater hick, right? I apologize to all vegetarians. It’s not you, it’s me.
I need me a man who’s gonna tear into my flesh, or something, but there you have it. And a vegetarian with his carrots and hummous? Yeah. I’ll let the hippie girls hog ‘im. There’s no fucking way my kitchen’s going veggie any time soon. Gardenburger my ass.
Christ, half the point of dirty all-night “clear the surfaces!” sex, sometimes, seems to be the plate of eggs and bacon you know you’re gonna have at the end of it all, isn’t it? God. Vegetarian… If only I’d known before the half-dozen emails.
Fuck. That should be on the list of immediate disclosures, like “I club seals” or “I’ll let weeks pass before I get in the mood to fuck you again, so be prepared to wait” or “remind me to take my meds”.
I mean, “you’ll have to totally change how you eat if you’re ever going to cook for me” is kinda need-to-know, isn’t it?
I’m a FOODIE. There’s a REASON I don’t invite vegetarians in for dinner. You got custom food needs? Dine out or eat at home, but sure as hell don’t show up to my house. You get what I’m fuckin’ cookin’, and you’re gonna like it.
And, hey. I believe that what you cook together in the kitchen tends to take a relationship to a new place. Making excellent meals together and enjoying them together? Wow! I love cookin’ with lovers. Shit, I love cooking with anyone!
But with a vegetarian? Nah, Veggie’s ridin’ the highway to nada, baby. Take the hat, leave the hummous.
It’s not them. It’s me. And I’m all right with that. Man, now I want a juicy burger.
[Speaking of juicy burgers, The New York Times says they’re all the rage in Paris now. And on my patio. Barbecue at Steff’s! BYoB!]