Warning: The following is another in the continuing series, “I need to get laid.” Proceed with caution and typing one-handed.
After a few days of washing dishes by hand (haven’t found the time or desire to wander the Home Depot just yet), a realization; wash my pots and I’m yours.
Hip deep in bubbles last night, the mind wandered. Perhaps it was the warm over splash and smell of citrus, but I couldn’t help picture a tall drink of man, wearing a bib apron adorned with bright red apples with rigid stems (and little else). Washing my dishes. Something so clean can sound so dirty given imagination and circumstance. But then, so many terms related to the kitchen can be construed as wink-wink-nudge-nudge:
Peel my orange
Shuck my corn
Butter my biscuit
Food is sexy, eating erotic. From the aggressive snap of a fresh baby carrot to stroking fleshy stems of artichoke through butter and teeth, filling a belly is a turn on. The crunch of a tart apple and dribble that escapes lips held tight to the smooth surface, not wanting to miss a drop. The smell and the taste, the texture and the temptation.
No wonder we’re a fat nation, there’s always food in the pantry, satisfaction within reach. Close your eyes and picture red wine swirling round and round a deep bellied glass, leaving behind a ruby film. A steak, fleshy and pink, steaming under a slowly surrendering patty of butter. The velvet melt of dark chocolate warming on your tongue.
Then again, lately everyday activities and objects have veered to carnal flights of fancy. Pumping gas, the rouge bead of sweat running under clothes during cardio. A shoe horn.
I have a dentist appointment tomorrow, cute doctor fingers and hands lingering in my mouth. Will he notice wear on my back molars? God, when did I start chewing ice again? Urban legend (or is it myth) says you crunch ice due to an iron deficiency or sexual frustration. All I know is my jaw is beginning to hurt from cracking cubes against my bottom teeth before pulverizing them into dust.
I’ve taken a holistic approach to healing my engine, stoking the fan and the furnace with vitamins and minerals, clean foods and loads of exercise. Yoga and coconut oil. But there's a sameness to my food lately, little more than a barrage of bananas and roasted vegetables tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper and few crumbles of feta on top. I need to branch out, order from the other side of the menu and open the palate to new possibilities.
I need steak. Or a black olive, a cherry tomato.