I like the way the salt on his skin tastes in the morning. When I untangle myself from the sheets, I can't help but coyly smile as he stares at me in my oversized I Cheese Wisconsin"" T-shirt. Even though I have not yet brushed my teeth, I pick him up and bring him to my lips. Sure, he's a day old piece of Ian's steak and fry I picked up at bar time and brought to bed, but man, he feels like home.
Now, I don't hate men: I routinely shave my legs when it's not winter, I have a fairly healthy relationship with my old man and I haven't banged my brother's head against the wall in at least four years. It's just that I've had some really bad luck with the male species and have sought comfort and love elsewhere.
And that place, my friend, is the dinner table.
This doesn't make me a manhater. Or a lesbian action hero. Or an asexual. I now consider myself a woman with a food fetish - a cuisine Casanova, if you will.
I don't think there is a linear sequence as to how I came to prefer a slice of cheese, a scoop of guacamole or a hunk of meat over, you know, the other kind of meat. But I'm pretty sure that I am just generally more pleased with foods' overall performance. When I'm craving some satisfaction, food gets the job done. Three times a day. I'm pretty sure I've never met a guy with that kind of track record.
Now when I'm feeling frisky, I forgo the booty sext message and I call my main man: Ian. Speed dial number 9. In less than forty minutes, we're going at it in my kitchen. He's sprawled across my table and is literally dripping ozzying melty goodness in my mouth. It's just so hot. The cheese. The crust. The love.
And unlike that awkward guy I was seeing from my philosophy class, food needs no direction. It knows exactly where to go: It eases into my mouth, moves down my esophagus and gets all up in my digestive system. I don't need to direct the food to my hot spot - it gets there every single time. Yes. Yes. YES!
For me, going to the grocery store can be the most erotic event of the week. There I am walking down aisle, after aisle with thousands of potential suitors waiting for me to select them, gently unwrap them and devour them frantically. I swear I can feel the heartbeat of the Cheez-Its box as I lovingly lift him into my trembling cart. And as I pass the lonely tuna fish, I swear I see a tear trickle down his cheek, smearing his packaging. I hear him calling my name, ""ASHLEY. ASHLEY. ASHLEY."" I have an empty feeling in my stomach, but I can't look back at him - he just doesn't do it for me.
By the time I rummage through the aisles of snacks, pastas and baking goods, it's not unlikely that you'll find me in the produce section, rubbing down a cucumber to get it nice and ripe or fantasizing about how many carrot sticks I can fit in my mouth at once. I pride myself on the way I select my daily veggies and fruits, because unlike the way I select male companions, I'm actually sober, not biting its neck and have a 20 percent off coupon in hand. Last time I checked, tall guys who wear collared shirts and souse themselves in Axe body spray don't accept a Copps Card.
Best of all, food will do all of those things guys don't want to do with you. The bag of Doritos will graciously accompany you to a girls sleepover, has no problem watching a Grey's Anatomy marathon with you and will never seek the company of another woman's pantry.
Tomorrow night, after I consume my Kcals with my other single friends while we emotionally overeat, we'll all feel fulfilled because food never leaves anything left to be desired: Whether you like to freak it when you eat it, or you're a prude and prefer to keep it basic, everybody can get their fix. Just remember, always use a condiment.
If you know of any single food products interested in long-term commitment, give them Ashley's e-mail: aaspener@wisc.edu.
