There’s a saying that goes “hunger is the best spice.” This is true. Without starvation as my salsa, I would never have been able to ingest all of those microwaveable burritos I ate when I was a wee street waif. You know the burritos I’m talking about: They come frozen in packs of 30 and they’re essentially toilet-paper tubes filled with beef caulking. This isn’t a saying anyone says, except for me, but it’s also true: “chastity is the best aphrodisiac.” Which is one reason I am totally pro-dry humping, a highly underrated sexual activity. A good, sweaty grind on a couch is a delightful tease of the wang-pong to come. Knowing that the other person can buck, grab, and slither in jeans is valuable carnal intel, the kind of insider information that turns an average hard-on into Excalibur. Putting off the inevitable for a week, a night or even an hour makes the resulting boner jams hotter, slicker and more gooseflesh-inducing.
Aphrodisiacs don’t really exist, of course. Men desperately want to believe that there are magical substances out there that increase sexual desire in women. First of all, it would just make our lives easier. Men wouldn’t have to go to all that effort to arouse women. And ladies, do we put in the hours trying to make it rain in your pants. Hours spent showering and thinking about your boobs and clipping our finger nails, or at least, clipping our finger-blasting nail. It’s a hell of an effort, especially if you include “listening” and “communicating in multi-syllables.” Phew! The only aphrodisiac I know that works 100 percent of the time is not being a desperate, panting vag-hound. Anticipation is sexy. Chastity is a public vow that is … fluid. Impermanent. It’s like calling “base” in a game of tag and momentarily taking a breather from being the prey. Chastity can just be a short break, a chance for pressure to build, the juices to go from “flowing” to “whitewater rapids.” Strong friction makes good fires.
I know that people swear by some aphrodisiacs. But really, they’re just crutches. At best, they might give a little self-esteem support to a couple who are still a little insecure around each other. I suppose the best thing one of these so-called aphrodisiacs can inspire are giggles. And giggles are good, because an orgasm is laughter conducting serious business. I have friends who swear by oysters.
Is it because they look vaguely like vaginas? By that logic, I should be able to decorate my apartment with Georgia O’Keefe paintings and immediately seduce any woman I’ve lured back to my fourth-floor walk-up in Queens. You know, the O’Keefe paintings of vaginas that look a little bit like flowers.
I likewise don’t believe that chocolate is an aphrodisiac. I will sneer at any commenter who busts out with the whole “but there are chemicals in cocoa that increase wappity-honkfarts” claptrap. Women are insane for chocolate. I saw a commercial once where a woman nibbled a tiny square of chocolate, and it made her suddenly feel like she was swinging back and forth in a chocolate hammock. Over the centuries, women have told men that chocolate turns them on, not because it does, but because it was a pretty successful way to get more chocolate. Henry Kissinger, the jowly and gravel-voiced Nixon advisor and Secretary of State, famously said that “power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” What should be added to that phrase is “but power doesn’t prevent premature ejaculation.”
Aphrodisiacs are sexual security blankets. Colognes do nothing but cover up the stink of steamed balls. Spanish fly is a practical joke perpetuated by Latin America on gringos. Four Loko is just date rape juice. The best way to increase sexual desire is to take it slow and steady. Fleeting, strategic chastity is the ultimate aphrodisiac, followed immediately by f**king.
Read more of John DeVore’s preening narcissism on Twitter.