It was a warm and spring-like evening when our heroine sat tapping away at her keyboard, clad in unsightly short shorts and a 15-year-old concert t-shirt that never would live to see the streets again.
Tom Waits wailed in his gravelly splendour as a breeze softly batted the bamboo blinds. She peered over the rim of her glass at the words before her, unsure where the fuck any of it would go.
But with the right music on the right night with the right drink in the wrong clothes with the tapping toes, well, who needs luck? She shrugged. Continue reading →
Our young protagonist, involved in an unlikely affair with a considerably older woman, one that all outsiders would state an “obvious fail”, just shrugs at his dubious confronters and says, “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be all right.”
And me, there on my sofa, I scoff and chuckle, “Oh, sure you will.”
Because I know. I know that, no matter how old we are, love makes bitches of us all.
Whatever your age, power status, social stature, or financial means, when love comes knocking and your heart starts racing, almost every one of us knows the cloying struggle between terror and exuberation.
My god — someone I like? Someone I need to be vulnerable for? Someone who’ll require me breaking free of my thou-shalt-not-enter comfort zone? Someone else to be responsible to?
I know all about the terror and the desire to run. Been there, done that. Yet it happens every time.
Ahh, Valentine’s Day. Sigh. Swoon. Won’t you be mine? Won’t you be my lover?
Let’s back that shit up.
Every year, without fail, I’m forced to write yet another posting saying pretty much all the same things. Like, if you can’t be romantic all year, you don’t deserve a lover. If you can’t remember to live with passion daily, then you’re wasting oxygen.
Sure, you can say, “Yeah, well, Valentine’s Day is good for young couples who are too busy — ”
Too busy? What, for each other? For knocking each other’s socks of with a quaking orgasm or two here and there? Too busy for head? Too busy for a stolen kiss in the corner of the kitchen? Too busy for a random, well-timed grope? Too busy for a lusty note snuck into a work lunch? Continue reading →
If there’s anything that’ll make me sick of Twitter in a hurry, it’s the endless drama regarding relationships and people’s moods. Some days, life’s too short.
That’s not to say that I don’t get it when people need to vent. Oh, do I. I get it.
Last night someone complained on Twitter, “Oh, I hate when I get stupid over a boy.” So I replied, “For thousands of years, all the best dramas have been about two things: Love & War. Do the math. We’re all stupid about it.”
I wonder sometimes how many people realize this. We’re all so self-punitive when wrapped up in turmoils of the heart. We damn ourselves and scowl about being so weak. But, are we? Continue reading →
And I got to tell ya, he prospect of regular sex has begun to loom, and this excites me considerably. Sets me all a-flutter, truth be told. But, you know, for all those strenuous hours of fun that potentially loom, one requires fuel. Enter food.
So I’m not sure what excites me more at this point — the prospect of regular sex, or the possibility of having someone to cook for again.
I’m a sensualist in every way. For example, my apartment is great and comfortable and is geared to stimulate every sense and look good whilst doing it. Loves me some music and candles. My food tastes run from down-home to exotic. I have a sophisticated palate, technical skill, and can invent food on a whim that’d blow your mind. I came damn close to going to culinary school back in the day but realized I didn’t want to work THAT hard for a living.
I’m also a Slow Food fan. I believe life moves quickly, and that food is important to us. I think we lose soul when we stop valuing food. I think we lose passion when we stop eating things that excite us.
I love the notion of Slow in all aspects of life — from sex to food to living. I’m present here and now in all areas of my life. I want my food to be of my time, I want to eat fresher, eat more clean food that I know I’ve prepared from scratch. I want local produce, quality meats and fish. I want artisan treats. That’s Slow.
But… when I’m single for too long, then a nice meal becomes the exception. I take shortcuts. I embrace things like Hamburger Helper and Sidekicks or sandwiches/panini or soups I eat for six days. I mean, it’s flavourful-functional, at best.
When I’m involved, however, I’m both a sensualist and a show-off. Perhaps a Moroccan chicken pie with organic greens? Maybe risotto and lamb? And while the lover of mine gets to enjoy the dividends… my life is richer for it, too.
Even better yet is when said lover is similarly a skilled foodie, because then we can tool around in the kitchen and spend the night nibbling fantastic things along with each other, and savouring good drinks. My god, does that titillate me.
There is absolutely nothing in the world I enjoy better than staying home with a lover and locking the door for a weekend, cooking fantastic food at lazy intervals between real-frequent and varied sex, napping when necessary, and catching up on movies during meals and lulls. The original rinse-and-repeat experience. And repeat, and repeat.
With the right company? Fuck, there’s no better time to be had. At home, anyhow. It’s the poor person’s vacation.
People who don’t think sex and food are intricately linked… y’all are doin’ it wrong.
It’s not a matter of taste. You’re just wrong. Flat-out. Inarguable.
(Sex + food) is like (peanut butter + chocolate). It seems like it’s always been a winning combination, and always will be.
Whether it’s Cleopatra feeding Anthony grapes from a silver platter in ancient Egypt, Adam enticing Eve with an apple, or you slipping your lover chocolate-dipped strawberries in the here and now with a champagne kicker, food hits a different kind of erogenous zone, but it hits, baby.
Besides, it’s fuel. Fill me up and watch me go-go. Sigh. Oh, the possibilities.
*PS: Yes, I’ve lost about 50 pounds. I don’t feel like I’ve been dieting. I work out a lot. I could lose more weight faster by eating less and pretending cheese and alcohol don’t exist. But why would I do that? Fucking hell. Diets are for people who like to take pain. Just silly. Instead, make healthier choices and be aware of calories burned v taken in. Simple. I’m better at math than I thought. :)
If it takes me another year to lose the other 50 pounds (this 50 took 8 months) but I’m eating cheese, pizza, sausages, and drinking booze regularly, then fucking A. All the power to me. I’d much rather health-fully indulge (my choices are better and when I do go off the hook, it’s in moderation) and feel like I’m alive than feel like I’m cutting myself off from life with deprivation. I don’t do deprivation well. So, eat? I will. Might even have seconds. But I’ll deal with it the next day. See? Work ethic! :)