I can vividly remember that fateful evening as though it were yesterday. I had traveled into London with my girlfriend of the time for an evening of fine dining and cultural stimulation. I remember gazing at her across the grey Formica table as she hungrily slurped the remaining topping from her final slice of Super Supreme Pizza, the pepperoni grease oozing from her chin onto her fluorescent boob tube. I’d never wanted anybody as much as I wanted her at that precise moment in time. The overwhelming urge to toss aside her prescription spectacles, untie her one orthopedic shoe and then take her roughly on the free salad counter was unbearable. I think she could sense the passion that popped and fizzed from within the darkest reaches of my loins and she seductively belched after gulping down what must’ve been her fifth Diet Pepsi. What a naughty little minx she was. As she licked the remaining pizza grease from off of her Swatch watch, I realised that the £5 I had spent on the tickets to watch Beavis and Butthead Do America at the Odeon Leicester Square, had paved the way for a night of passion.
I could control myself no longer and motioned to the waitress for our bill. I suggested that we get the night bus back to my place. Sure it was a two-hour journey with a half hour walk the other end, but it was a damn sight cheaper than a taxi. I wasn’t made of money after all and I figured the exercise would properly get us both in the mood.
We couldn’t keep our hands of each other on that N55 bus as we gave the unsuspecting drunks a free show of flailing limbs and asthma inhalers. You could’ve cut the sexual tension with a knife, which ironically is something that most of these bus passengers had in their possession at all times. The half hour walk turned into nearly two as I had to carry her most of the way, due to the misplacement of her shoe on the bus, but we were finally here and nothing was going to get in our way.
I urgently scrabbled for the door keys as the woman of my dreams clutched me tenderly around the waist, her facial whiskers prickling the nape of my neck.
We fell into the hallway in a whirlwind of frantic panting and discarded clothing. I remember hoping that we hadn’t woken my mother with all our urgency, as she still didn’t fully approve of my relationship with this girl and her satanic leanings. Thankfully my mother didn’t stir and we set about the business at hand.
We writhed in ecstasy on the Leopard-print rug that adorned the living-room floor, our naked bodies entwined like a snare of serpents, when a sharp pain in my back passage stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Whoa, steady on. I’m not into that sort of thing so can you please remove your finger!” I said firmly, but still trying not to kill the mood.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I haven’t touched you”, she said in her most sincere of voices.
It was then that I realised I had rolled onto the spout of the copper kettle that my mother keeps on the fireplace. I apologized, removed myself from its icy grasp and carried on undeterred.
“Do you want to try something a little different?” she purred into my ear, as the fine spray of spittle from her speech impediment coated my lobe.
In all fairness the incident with the kettle was a first for me but surely the evening couldn’t get any worse.
She slowly pulled away from me, rose clumsily to her feet then hobbled down the hallway into the confines of the kitchen. I heard the unmistakable creak of the refrigerator door and the moving of jars and bottles. The door finally closed and she eventually reappeared in the darkness of the living room.
She lay down beside me and whispered in my ear,
“Just lie back and enjoy”, she said as she fumbled with her stash from the kitchen fridge.
I felt a cold and rather sticky substance come into contact with my chest, followed by the ravenous lapping of my girlfriend’s tongue.
“This is actually quite nice”, I thought to myself as she moved her way across my rigid body.
She eventually moved away, more fumbling ensued and a thicker substance was gently smeared onto both of my nipples. Her hungry mouth eased its way across my body until it reached its destination. Her teeth toyed with my nipples and then there was nothing but pain, lots of it. I yelped in agony, brushed her aside and then scuttled in all my glory over to the light switch to illuminate this painful situation. I flicked on the light and quickly evaluated my chest. There was a red sticky substance just under my breastbone to which my initial reaction was “Blood!”
To my relief it was just the undigested remnants of the Robertson’s Raspberry Jam that had constituted my girlfriend’s starter, although it had been the main course that had caused my discomfort. My nipple hair was entwined with what looked like the cheese portion of a Dairylea Dunker. Her over excited nibbling had caused some of my longer nipple hairs to become dislodged and two of the escapee’s were left sorrowfully swaying in the breeze from a smudge of soft cheese on my attacker’s chin.
As I stood there staring at her lopsided frame everything I had ever felt for her evaporated in an instant. My body now resembled the inside of a toddler’s bib and my cheese-incrusted nipples ached at the loss of its hairy comrades.
This monster in front of me had damaged me beyond repair and also had robbed me of a late-night cheese based snack. The combination of the two was utterly unforgivable.
That was the last time that I ever saw her. I told her to take her walking frame and go, and I stood and watched as she boarded that transit van’s hydraulic lift, her hump glistening in the moonlight as she limped out of my life forever. From that day on I vowed that my two most favourite pastimes should never meet again.
I of course blame that Mickey Rourke fronted film 9 ½ weeks, with its infamous scene of kitchen based tomfoolery with pickled eggs and smoked mackerel being inserted into varying bodily orifices. Some people may find it highly arousing watching a young Kim Basinger dipping her areolas into strawberry Munch Bunch yoghurt, but not this dude. I just find it to be a waste of perfectly good dairy.
I remember a work colleague once had an abundance of free tickets to the infamous London strip club Stringfellows. He asked me and a couple of other work friends if we all fancied a trip down there one afternoon, and as we worked just around the corner we could make the trip in our lunch break. It all sounded like a fantastic idea and we set about planning our work excursion. I was ready for an afternoon of exotic dancing and skimpy outfits when something on my golden ticket caught my eye. In amongst all the bumping and grinding there would be a free buffet. My blood ran cold.
There is no question that I would’ve enjoyed a face full of surgically enhanced bosoms as I would’ve equally enjoyed a face full of sausage roll and chicken drumstick, but a combination of the two? most certainly not. I declined his kind offer and offered up some excuses about how I felt strip clubs exploit women and about it being against my principles. I’m not entirely convinced he believed me and my claims as I’m pretty sure I drooled slightly when he handed me the tickets in the first place. So that was a giant NO to the combination of boobs and buffet.
I also struggle to comprehend how a circular ring of glazed dough can bring a thirty stone American woman to the point of orgasm. A programme that aired earlier in the year highlighted the arousing effects baked goods had on one particular oversized stripper. We were treated to her groans of pure pleasure as she engulfed the baked contents of a coffin-sized box. She claims that a chocolate éclair could provide her with ten times more pleasure than a man could ever supply her with. That may have something to do with it being a shorter distance between her hands and her mouth than between her stomach and her vagina. It’s an easier access route is what I’m saying.
I can’t ever recall being aroused by any food item, although I did once become a bit faint after inserting a second iced finger.
So there you have it. I have chosen not to mix sex and food and I certainly don’t feel any worse off for it.
No longer will I have to clean jam spillage from off of the shagpile carpet, miss out on soft cheese when I get peckish of an evening or try to free sweetcorn kernels from a place where the sun will never shine.
My fridge will never be empty and my navel will never be full.
Let’s not make food rude.
Miserable Musing. 