Food and Sex
One is required to live. The other is required to create life. Depending on your appetites, one of them is the best part of being alive. Sometimes they complement each other. Sometimes they’re combined. Sometimes they’re kept in discrete compartments. Every day (if we’re fortunate) we experience one or both.
Food and sex are natural constants that allow the organisms of our planet to survive and flourish. But only food, it seems, is an acceptable subject for unbidden declarations of personal ecstacy. How many times has a friend fairly swooned, her mouth agape in an evocative moan and her eyes rolling back in her head, communicating with anyone within earshot the sublime perfection and intense pleasure of the slice of carrot cake she recently ingested? We moan in concert: Oh my god, that sounds so yummy!
Seldom in polite company will you hear that same friend describe in ecstatic detail the cunninglingus she enjoyed post-dessert.
It’s not proper, of course, to share publicly a personal experience involving one’s body. We would probably feel the same way about the cake eating story if, after detailing the magnificent tastes experienced upon the tongue, the exultant storyteller continued with evocative descriptions of the way the crushed and masticated slurry slid down her gullet and into her stomach, followed by a rapturous account of the bowel movement that occurred (or was impending) as a result of that glorious slice of pastry.
Polls tell us that a surprisingly large number of women would rather have chocolate than sex. Based on our societal comfort with rapturously chronicling the things we put in our mouths — and subesequently our intestines and rectums — this ought not surprise us. Nor should the preponderance of overfed, overweight Americans stumbling from one briefly effective diet to another. Most of us would rather eat than fuck.
And then talk about it.