"I want you to fill me up, stuff me like feta cheese into a big green cocktail olive,” Huh? What? How did I get here with this mascara moron shouting culinary indecencies into my furious dripping mug? I mean I love sex, who doesn’t? I used to love food too; I loved chicken potpie until she explained it was a metaphor for her voracious appetite for my holy “drumstick”. I loved strawberries until she told me where she lost one while experimenting as a young teen (4 days she couldn’t get it out, the doctor tried too, it was finally her uncle who dislodged the refreshingly fruity dam. . . . hmmmm?). Seriously look at me, I'm working; I'm at work, see that vein in the middle of my forehead, that’s my fornication vein, see my gritted teeth, in about ten more seconds the top two Chiclets are going to shatter, it's a defense mechanism, it means shut the fuck up. Blood will dribble from my mouth onto her soft skin and instead of scaring her she’ll compare it to something sweet like cherry syrup and keep telling me to “eat that peach!” like a demanding African American single mother of three.
"Oooh yea almost there almost there, now pass out the pigs in a blanket. . . don't overcook, don't overcook. . . ok, ok yes yes and toss that olive in the martini, annnnnnd done" Excuse me, 23 yr old hipster Julia Childs can you stop with the food references. I don't even like whip cream touching the surface of my palm while I watch skinemax, much less re-enacting the cream cheese scene from Caligula in my bedroom. The last thing I need is a sexual "partner" that can't stop shouting about meat made out of pig scraps as I reach climax. The whole session would go on like this, and I’m sorry I really am, but food and sex they just don’t mix.
“Appetizers, oooh baby fontina cheese on the quiche, sprinkle it, sprinkle it, little more, ok ok now put it in the oven, oooh its hot don’t burn yourself baby!” What!? Never compare the most important part of a man to a quiche, c’mon if its gotta be food give me the salami, or the popsicle, the banana or the. . . . fuck I don’t even care the carrot stick, but not a small round appetizer. And oven? I don’t want to hear your babymaker referred to as an oven under any circumstance. There will be no “bun in the oven,” “no roast in the heater,” “no pizza in the broiler,” nothing is going in that spot when the euphemism you choose, by nature, heats things up until they are edible. You don’t call it an oven and I won’t call it a babymaker, deal?
But no these food references didn’t stop, at first I thought wow this girl is perfect she comes over at 1am stays for an hour then I spread out like Henry the VIII in my California King as she heads off to the Guillotine or whatever Silverlake bar she sauntered out of. But, eventually food references became food. She’d say c’mon its just a little chocolate syrup, or hey its just a bit of honey, then it was ketchup, it was milk, it was fritos, cream of spinach, then chicken, briscuit (briscuit?), a full Easter dinner. Next thing I know she had moved the microwave to my nightstand; there were banana muffins cooling on my Fender and my bedroom smelled like a prison cafeteria after a 30 man riot and a sopping sodomy soiree. I began washing my sheets 3 times a week and thinking hey this is normal, women are weird. But the sex was just so good when we started, when the food references were at a minimum, and when she came to cum and left when it left me.
Soon she was staying overnight; she was reading “Barefoot Contessa,” and “Giada’s Kitchen” by nightlight and whispering, “3 Teaspoon’s of Cumin” in my ear. My room started to resemble a cross between Mike’s Pastries and Hustler; it was “Larry Flint presents: the Bakers Dozen,” I had my own Porn Cakery. She liked to call it the Sweaty Muffin shop; I liked to throw up in my mouth a little when I heard that.
And then it set in. At first for me, it was “No I’ll pass on breakfast”, then it was “wow I’m just really not hungry for lunch”, and then geez “I ate a huge dinner 3 days ago.” Eventually the sex came to a halt because my bed was a lasagna testing station, I stopped going to work because I was too weak and malnourished to leave home, I started to get dizzy spells because her steak supreme and garbanzo surprise made my thoughts dry heave. The very site of her retreated my appetite back into my quickly decaying body as it ate away at what nutrients it could find. And I guess I finally passed out or lost consciousness, or my body just couldn’t take it anymore and that’s when I ended up here, in this hospital bed, with food being forced into my mouth and nutrients pumped into my veins by a 40 yr. old ex boxer and 6 feet of plastic tubing. Apparently I was anorexic, but it was more than that too. I had “Comestible Depression” combined with “Anti-Gormandize Reproduction Syndrome.” This was grounds for not just a hospital stay but a year of rehabilitation as well; this was "what Charles needs to take back his former life."
But at night to my horror she would sneak into my room, drag a microwave from the cafeteria all the way down the hall and heat up leftover culinary concoction number 2,645. She would take off her clothes and mount my broken soul shouting, “I want you to fill me up!!” as a single tear would run down my chocolate chip cookie cheek.