As bugs do, we do.
In order to survive, we tear apart; our stomach juices dissolve resistant flesh. We cause unimaginable pain to live.
Our amuse-bouches, the food on our table, all its custard yellows and foamy oxygenated whites, once bitten or broached become a casualty of our body horror, like everything else we brush against in the city. Food, don't touch me. You disgust me. But still, we desire it, ingest and absorb it willingly, unlike bugs (apparently in our sleep we inadvertently eat up to eight a year) and sperm (ditto).
It only seems repulsive if it dangles from our chin in plain view. We flinch, if it lands on our bare legs in summer. No surprise then, if some people get off on food.
He always had a can or two of whipped spray cream in his refrigerator, and not much else, so naturally I was curious. There were tentative dating questions. Guys tend to get straight to the point. Not for us the agonised do-I-tell-or-don't-I? of heterosexual couples. For us, sex should be like test-driving a Ferrari. Sometimes, you want to go real fast.
So, on a couple of occasions, the whipped spray cream came into play, standing proud and erect on the bedside table. I soon found out that in the real, sexualised world of food, it's not dainty dollops of strawberries and cream on your nipples, till you squeal with delight. It's slathering you with honey, and letting the ants come get you. You're sushi, raw. It's filling your mouth with so much of that fucking cream you choke. Panic. Now
that's hot.
Still, it wasn't enough, apparently. We had to go faster, faster still.
One morning, I realised this was to be a special occasion. Not that it was anyone's birthday, or some Jewish holiday, but in his mind he had slow-cooked me to the point of perfection, my flesh spry to the prick of the fork.
My hands were tied behind my back. Now that had happened before. He once shackled me to an office chair and proceeded to wheel me out his apartment into the corridor, locking me out. It wasn't for long, and neither did I complain, because boy, wasn't it funny?!
Jesus, sometimes I am such a cypher for the desires of others. I guess that's what makes me a writer. Are we all choking, tied up naked somewhere, at least us good ones?
Then he blindfolded me.
I was led - oh, I forgot to mention, we were both naked - to the bathroom the size of a small New York closet. A stool had been placed centrestage in the tub, and I was instructed to sit on it. I did as I was told. Yes, of course I was a little nervous. I didn't think he was a psycho, no. His hands around my throat, his taste for creative breath deprivation were mere parlour games to stave off the
ennui, I believed. But I was... on edge this time, I'll admit. The spray cream, from a vertical position, was not really working. He couldn't attain the volume he desired, the all-important discomfort, the weight I would sink under. Telling me not to go away - that sense of humour again! - I heard him slip off into the kitchen the size of a small New York closet, from where the sound of clanking pots and pans, hubble and bubble reached my ears. Whatever this was, this was big. I was left there for ten minutes, alone with my thoughts. It was a chilly Sunday morning, I pondered. Must wrap up. He had an old, cantankerous cat I remembered, and it was probably darting around his feet, expecting titbits. My mum and dad far away, over the ocean. I pictured them. This, they probably wouldn't understand.
He came back and promptly emptied a bucketful of cream over my head. Vanilla, I think. I was invisible beneath it suddenly, the colour of yellow mud, my eyes, my mouth popping like a fish, all gone. His hands all over this saccharine deluge, investigating me as it dripped down my cracks and crevices. Even blindfolded, I knew how interesting I must have been. I was no longer form, but food, a cakehole, a perfect sugarstorm. I might have said "Ohmygod" but really there was nothing to say. For I was nothing. I was all surface. He was besotted. He was hard, I knew, because he was jabbing me with it. And I thought, so this is it, this is being objectified, this is being a woman, this is being a child under a pedophile's leer, and I like it, except how can this end, I can't go around like this forever, can I? And then he ripped the blindfold off and I saw the one hand clamp back onto his big sex, and in the other was a cream pie, an expensive one to boot, perfect and perfectly round, a colour feast, a 20 dollar delight, and he threw it in my face, the moment foodies have all been waiting for, and then, of course, he came.
Posts
