When food has replaced sex in your relationship, it’s pretty much over. If you’re a month or so into a relationship and you both find yourself face-planting bowls of pasta on a Friday night instead of giving yourselves reason to clean your sheets on Saturday morning, something is not right. Favorite foods are not a substitute for favorite sexual positions.
The problem I’m talking about here is that moment when you realize you’re in a food coma with the person who most recently saw you naked, rather than nodding off blissfully into a post-coital slumber, her foot in your face, your hand on her ass.
Fine. Maybe you’re both tired, overworked; these are stressful times, after all, and there’s comfort in sharing a pizza. Or you’ve stumbled home after a drunken night out and a sloppy pot of macaroni and cheese is not only necessary, but welcome. None of that does any harm. Hell, making someone dinner is a time-honored seduction technique, and one of my foolproof tricks when wooing a woman. And by “wooing,” I mean, “trying to get her to take her pants off.” I dare any of you to resist my enchiladas of love. Other foolproof tricks include but are not limited to: semi-sincere puppy dog eyes, roguish pleading, and something I’ll refer to as “Sexytime Freakdance.” Eggs always taste better after hot, early morning, sleepyhead romping.
Making someone food is a sublime way to express love, of course. I dated a woman who would spend an entire night before a date folding little wontons that she learned to make when she was living in Hong Kong. Sure, she was stoned while she was doing it. But she would make them, and we would inhale them like we had wonton gills, and there have been precious few moments in my life when I’ve felt more loved.
I’ve been there. A couple months into a relationship, we realized that perusing the stack of takeout menus together provided far too much joy. The relationship ended soon after, amicably. You have been warned.
I love sex, and I love food. Not at the same time. Never at the same time. I don’t want whipped cream on my junk any more than I want your boob in my nachos. But I love both appetites dearly, and it’s not because they are two of the greatest perks of life, but because they are largely the whole point of life. They are the greatest potential vehicles for love — as well as biological imperatives. Sex is so omnipresent in our modern times, so cheap, so disposable, sold like corn chips to satisfy cravings, that it’s easy to forget it is one of our primary pursuits as human beings. It is an appetite as profound as hunger or thirst. We need to ensure our individual survival. We need to consume fuel. We need to reproduce. There is junk food, and there is junk sex. But a truly remarkable meal, and a blindingly ridiculous orgasm, satisfy that part of your soul that is weary, downtrodden, burdened by life’s little anchors and wants nothing more than to float for a moment.
Most men appreciate, if not wholly love, a woman with an appetite. Sometimes sexiness is the soft peach fuzz on the back of her neck, and sometimes it’s watching her break down a plate of fried calamari. I’m not suggesting we love the morbidly obese, but a woman who owns her hunger and greedily sates it is straight up awesome. For instance, when I’m dating a chick, I plan a burger date. This date will come before the one wherein we slurp funky and delicious Vietnamese soups at a joint that is out of the way and where no English is spoken. But the burger date says everything about a woman. Cheeseburgers are simple, messy, and an excellent one can be a culinary masterpiece. Does she like her burger bloody? Does she attack it with extreme prejudice? Mustard or mayo? Most importantly: Does she eat like no one is looking or judging? The ability to give into abandon, be it eating a cheeseburger or doing it panther-style, is an important aptitude to discern early on in a relationship.
But never substitute one for the other. It’s bad news. And never, ever combine them, please. Honey in my pubic hair is not a turn on. You know who you are.