MAN EATER

The one that got away. As the best I've ever had, Puck deserves his own page.

The game got old...so Man Eater changed her tune and is inviting artists into her kitchen to spice things up.

First, Casey Call, frontman for Pictures of Then, taught Man Eater a lesson...in making his infamous marshmallow eggs! But how did she react when, after rocking her world, Casey pulled a sticky-fingered manuever with her spatula? A spanking may be on the menu...

Meanwhile, singer/​songwriter Grant Dawson treated Man Eater to a tall stack of gluten-free (but berry gluttonous) pancakes. Sweet though they may be, they're not as yummy as the private serenade that follows, in which Grant croons his heart out whilst sandwich between two smitten kittens!

Then, acoustic artist Matthew Inkala showed Man Eater some serious T & A, followed by a sandwich so culinarily complex, you probably can't pronounce it! If you have an agile tongue and brave tastebuds, give Matthew's Muchecinnahon Sandwich a try! Don't be shy. Matthew sure isn't in his private acoustic performance, video-taped exclusively for the Man Eater blog!

If you are what you eat, then it's no wonder that sweetie pie Dan Zamzow makes an awesome sweet potato pie! Man Eater dives deep into soul food, Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings, and green thumbs with the cellist who specializes in pie crust!

On the steamiest day of the summer, Man Eater interviews Ryan Traster and right-hand man Mike McGarthwaite in anticipation of their The Tourists EP release. Conquering Ryan's Mount Couscous is a trip!

Man Eater is so eggcited when she finally *ties down* the frontmen from Rogue Valley. Can life get any better than an Eggstasy Sandwich shared with Chris Koza and Peter Sieve? Talk about a pair of good eggs!

Because one boy band isn't enough, Man Eater seeks out the shock jocks of hard rock, also known as The Goondas. Can she convince drummer Josh Miller to cook sans shirt? Or will she have to charm the pants off him instead? Talkin' veg tats, wizard staffs, and exhibitionism whilst cooking up trouble--and Debauchery Pasta with five guys at once!

Most recently, Man Eater met up with singer/​songwriter Josh Fry. The frontman for Tollund Moses has a Beatles fetish, a big mouth and an even bigger sausage...in other words, Man Eater's dream! But how can she reconcile the responsible homebody with the edgy rockstar? Perhaps the answer lies in Josh Fry's signature recipe: Cowboy Caviar!

Then Man Eater gets the dish on what makes long-term relationships work over Phat Freestylin' Pad That with underground hip hop hottie Kristoff Krane!

More aural and oral delights still to come from Twin Cities' musicians soon!

A man I’d planned to have a first date with long ago, but canceled on when I found out he was still cohabitating with his ex, contacted me after my break-up with Honey Buns and suggested we get together for a “non-date.”

I honestly thought this thing with New Dude was platonic. And even if it wasn’t, the fact that I kept New Dude waiting for almost AN HOUR at the bar was reason enough for him to hate me forever.

But that night, Cupid was on my side. (Finally!) I was shocked that New Dude did not look anything like his Facebook picture. When I told him so, he said, “I know, I’m fatter.”

“No,” I said, eyeing his manly-man frame and impressive guns. “You’re SO much hotter!”

We proceeded with first-date-style conversation, ate burgers (me, turkey; him, chicken) and pillaged piles of sweet potato fries. New Dude was nothing like the image I’d created in my head per our emails over the past six months. Had I only known what a stud he was, I could have avoided so much regrettable sex…

Onscreen, I had New Dude perfectly pegged as a nice-but-not-my-type kind of guy. In real life, he was perfect FOR me. Creative yet responsible, sweet inside but rough around the edges, brawny and intelligent.

So much for being “just friends”! It was all I could do not to blurt out a slew of inappropriate nothings, namely, “I want to fuck you so bad.”

Before I could say something utterly stupid, New Dude leaned in and confessed that he really wanted to kiss me. It took about five milliseconds for me to take his tongue in my mouth and suck the life out of him. Holy Mother of God. I can’t remember the last time I had a first kiss that delish! So much for the shy guy I’d expected to meet! This guy was an A+ Alpha!

We made out intermittently throughout the show. After a cig break, New Dude and I moved to the stairs. As in: New Dude was sitting with his legs propped open just enough so I could lean back against his crotch, and he could reach his hands…well, just about anywhere on my body.

I was tripping on testosterone. Hedonistic heaven, readers. HEAV-EN.

I'm a sucker for firsts, so going to a new restaurant with the oldest man to ever have asked me out on Father's Day was quite *exciting*.

Sea Salt was one of those South Minneapolis venues that I'd heard buzz about since it opened but never bothered to visit. Someone with a sensitive schnozz must’ve designed this place, because it was open air and situated next to Minnehaha Falls. On the muggy Minnesotan evening I dined there, you really wouldn’t have wanted to be in a small, enclosed space where fish was being fried and broiled en masse.

The line was out the door. Out the door and across a fucking field, to be exact. When Dog Star said it'd be an hour-long wait outside and an hour in, I thought he was kidding. Ha ha. The joke was on me.

But the wait was worth it, because by the time our order arrived, I was famished. To start: oysters. Because men love to see a lady squirm. I'd never had them before, but according to a previous conversation I'd had with Playboy, they were to die for.

The oysters at Sea Salt were grainy on top and soft beneath. They were salty and juicy and fresh and fantastic. I didn’t feel a bit weird about eating them; if anything grossed me out, it was Dog Star's suggestion that I drink the leftover juice. To tip the shell up to my mouth and swallow down the liquid was just a tad too symbolic of another kind of “c” eating. (Been there, done that, never going back!)

Dinner was followed by a walk across the street to Dairy Queen. Dog Star was quite the contrast to my previous slew of suitors who seemed to think a girl like me can fuck on fumes. Then again, Dog Star had asked for explicit instructions on what makes a great date. “Fuck me, feed me, follow through,” I’d said. “In that order.”

To his credit, Dog Star followed through. And he stuffed me full of food. Fucking was sure to follow. But as you may have noticed, the satiation of appetites was out of order.

I was in the midst of a mostly college-aged crowd at the Jeremy Messersmith CD release show when a tall, taut stud came into view. The first thing I noticed about him was his sweet ass. It was high and tight, the kind of buns you’d see on an inner city basketball player. (Or a man who likes to fuck. Doggy style. A LOT.) Broad shoulders, triangular torso, and a toque-covered head completed the package. Sexy sexy sexy.

Never in a million years did I expect to speak to the guy (I’ve done 20-something dudes before and have found them to be one-trick ponies in the sack…meaning fast and furious and not so skilled in foreplay), which is why I unabashedly ogled aforementioned ass from a few feet away.

After Messersmith crooned through a slew of Beatle-esque tunes, the crowd shifted and suddenly, Honey Buns was standing RIGHT in front of me. He was so close, you could barely slide a piece of paper between our bodies. Honey Buns had pheromones on steroids. Within seconds, sweat was dripping from my every pore...and orifice.
It was all I could do NOT to grab his hips and start rocking the cradle right then and there.

When we finally made eye contact, I flashed a coy smile. He responded in kind. DAMN, how I wished I was young, dumb, and 23!

The crowd shifted again and Honey Buns ended up behind me. I felt a flash of heat shoot from my right shoulder blade down to my heel. A baritone whisper in my ear followed. Honey Buns had made his move.

After verbally establishing that, yes, the chemistry was mutual, he asked what I did (a.k.a. the most loaded question in the world). No matter which writing credit I owned up to (my memoir or Man Eater), I was screwed. I would have to admit to being a former anorexic or a kinky Betty Crocker.

I figured this guy wasn’t interested in anything more than a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am exchange with an experienced woman, so I owned up to both authorial credits...and waited for Honey Buns to bolt.

He didn’t. He asked more questions. Questions that, surprisingly, I felt very confident and unashamed answering. Honey Buns was ballsy without being cocky. That’s a delicate—and delectable—balance!

“So where can I find you?” Honey Buns asked.

“Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

I hesitated for a moment, then reached into my purse and pulled out a Man Eater business card.

“And now I will probably never see you again,” I said. “But it was nice to meet you.”

Honey Buns chuckled and made some sort of comment to the tune of “How bad could it be?”

Double your pleasure, double your fun. I’m out on the town with a smokin’ hot couple… who want to initiate me into the crazy sexy cool world of ménage à trois.

Though I’ve fucked other women’s boyfriends before, I’ve never had to greet a lover in the presence of his girlfriend. To say it’s a tad uncomfortable would be an understatement.

“Hi,” he says, sidling up beside me. He gives me a half-hug. “Is that all you’re drinking?”

He motions to the ceramic pot on the table in front of me. While the others swallow down glasses of sangria, martinis, vodka referred to by brand and shots of something salty, I’m nursing a mug of mint tea, a choice I’ve already been teased about multiple times.

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “The waitress told me I was lame.”

He leans in, his lips almost grazing my ear. “She clearly doesn’t know you,” he says.
His breath smells like cigarettes and booze. I wish I could bottle it. I run my shoe up and down his calf, just out of sight of our table mates. I can’t wait to get out of here and on top of this man...and then I remember She's coming (quite literally) with us.

Am I in over my head? I feel like a Freshman in high school and the Prom King & Queen have invited me to skinny dip in Lake Mojo…but I don’t know how to swim. This could be the quickest way to learn—or I might drown when the only move I know (doggy paddle, of course) fails to keep me afloat.

During one of my Facebook friending sprees, I happened upon Dr. Depp’s profile. Originally, I made the friend request because, well, Dr. Depp was hot (hence the pseudonym). Then I noticed his M.D. credentials, the single parent status, and an affinity for indie rock. I couldn’t have found a better match on Match.com!

“Have we met…in this life, past or present?” Dr. Depp messaged me after approving the friend request.

“Perhaps you always wanted to meet me and didn’t realize it until now,” I replied.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Our flirtation followed the traditional path, as far as Facebook relationships go, with increasingly suggestive emails eventually leading into a dinner date invite. But on the day of date #1, I got unexpectedly stuck with my children, so I cancelled on Dr. Depp.

Assuming he was hurt, I didn’t force the rescheduling issue. Months later, Dr. Depp and I got back in touch and scheduled the First Date, Take Two at The Strip Club. An hour before our meeting time, Dr. Depp cancelled our date. Though I suspected he'd been reading the blog and was freaked out by my freaky bedroom behavior, Dr. Depp cited his kids as the reason for the rain check. (Karma kicks my ass AGAIN!)

I was ready to write Dr. Depp off as another difficult single Dad who spooked too easily when he sent me a text asking what my schedule looked like…in July. (It was April.) Hardy-har-har. Dr. Depp signed his text with “FML”.

FML? WTF? I actually had to consult Google. And when I did, I knew Dr. Depp was a keeper.

“Did you just say ‘Fuck My Life’ to me?” I texted back. “If so, I forgive you.”

“Thanks for being so fucking understanding,” Dr. Depp replied.

I SO love me a sailor mouth. Add sarcasm and…swoon!

“It’s all good,” I reassured him. “It’s not like you were going to get laid anyway.”

The third attempt for a first date was a charm...and included the sexiest hunk of meat to ever enter Man Eater's mouth!

The best way to get over a Slump Buster is to get under somebody else...and who better than Playboy, a local celebrity with a big package and plenty of experience in the sack? Don't be fooled by the cuddly bunny implications of his pseudonym, however; this man's a bed-hopping animal!

After getting fucked over too many times, I swore off sex. I vowed to raise my standards and be well-behaved until a worthy specimen came along. FOURTEEN nookie-free months passed until one of the hotties on this page convinced me to break the dry spell. How did he charm my pants off? (Hint: he got a little help from his friends...)

Irish Eyes e-mailed me one night to compliment me on the Man Eater blog. Sexy onscreen flirtation ensued until he invited me to dinner. Of course I said "yes". This was my first date in TEN months!

“So. Why me?” Irish Eyes asked as we tucked into piles of fries and bison burgers.

“Because you asked,” I answered.

(Yes, the bar for suitors really was that low...or, as Irish Eyes declared after hearing my horror stories, “There is no bar!”)

Though he paid for my "1/​3 pound of happiness" (the restaurant's terms, not mine, but oh so clever), something was off. Namely: me. In a nutshell: I was a bitch.

The words "aggressive", “emasculated”, and “character assassination" were dropped during dinner. By him. About me. My intention was not to wound my date with biting sarcasm, but that’s what I did.

The date ended with the two of us standing on the sidewalk in the frosty night, me feeling like the biggest loser in the world, Irish Eyes still giving me the benefit of the doubt.

Nervous, sketchy eye contact (mine) ensued, followed by uncomfortable laughing/​head shaking (his). Irish Eyes did the right thing...meaning he kissed me. I was as responsive as an icicle.

"Thank you," I said.

Irish Eyes looked at me totally, utterly, confused.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I may not be a relationship expert, but dates should never end with either party saying “I’m sorry.” I felt like I utterly failed at my re-emergence into the dating world.

I’d never seen a bookstore so packed before. It was standing room only. I slinked as close to the front as I could, but I ended up stuck in the math and science aisle. The room reeked of beer (how’d they get that in here?!), B.O., and unwashed denim.

The men in attendance were checking me out with hungry eyes. I gotta admit, I looked good enough to eat: clear skin, bouncy, shiny hair, flat stomach. Add skin-tight jeans and high-heeled boots and I was oh-so-fuckable.

But I didn’t want any of those guys. I came to see Retro Writer, my latest authorial crush, and have him sign my copy of his new book.

I couldn’t see Retro Writer from where I was standing, but I could hear him reading. It was rare that I was impressed by fiction, but Retro Writer was irreverent and laugh-out-loud funny. When he dropped the F-bomb, I knew he and I would get along just fine.

I wasn’t a bit nervous when I approached the table where Retro Writer was signing books. Before I could even begin my dorky introduction, Retro Writer said (or was it more of a purring?), “Errrica.” I was flattered he remembered my name from only a pair of suggestive emails. Then again, I was starting to feel like more people than I realized knew who I was. I sensed the lingering stares, especially from one tall stranger in the corner, with whom I’d been swapping sly smiles for the last half-hour.

I didn’t fully believe that anyone paid attention to what I wrote on the Man Eater blog. Now I wondered how many of the people around me had read my last post…about my creative masturbation methods after a broken vibrator kept me from getting off.

But back to the deliciousness at hand. Retro Writer. He was wearing a powder blue suit with a daisy pinned on the lapel. I wondered if his wife picked the outfit for him. I didn’t know her, but from the photos I’d seen, she was so fashionable she could be a paper doll cut straight from the pages of Vogue. Petite, brunette, sharp features. The kind of woman you wouldn’t want to cross. She’d probably scratch your face off. (Insert cat hiss here.)

So I was trying to behave (but not really) when…

I was on yet another first date; thus far, the hottest part of the outing was the Indian food on the table. Then C'mon Kid, a local musician I'd heard OF but never heard play live, appeared.

C'mon Kid was just a few feet away from my table, dressed in that stylishly scruffy way, tuning his guitar, and reeking of testosterone like cheap cologne. But I wasn’t interested. Truly! Competing for a man’s attention with the skanky groupies is so NOT my cup of tea…

…but as soon as my date disappeared to the bathroom, C’mon Kid came onto ME.

“Want a free CD?” he asked.

Like giving candy to a baby, readers. Candy to a baby. I stood up to retrieve my prize, instantly wobbly in the knees from C’mon Kid’s cockiness.

Before serious flirtation ensued, my date returned and we sat back down. Song after incredible song (including a cover of “Sexual Healing”) followed. To say the concert was intimate would be an understatement. There weren’t more than a dozen of us in the restaurant by the end of C’mon Kid’s second set. He may as well have been serenading me and me alone.

Which, eventually, he did.

“I’m gonna make up a song about this first date at the front table,” C’mon Kid announced, raising his glass to me. “Do you want the sensitive version or the R-rated version?”

“The more four-letter words, the better!” I shouted back.

C’mon Kid smiled and improvised a very funny--albeit raunchy--song about my date getting drunk, puking on me, and trying to get into my pants. (In that order.)

“I made her blush!” C'mon Kid boasted at the end of the song, pointing at me. My skin was the shade of masala not because of embarrassment, but because the only person I wanted to get laid by at the moment was C’mon Kid…

At the end of the show, C’mon Kid leaned into the microphone and asked, “Will there be a second date?” My suitor and I looked at one another like “What the hell do we know?” and C’mon Kid said, “I’m thinking not!”

C'mon Kid stopped by to say hello before my date and I departed for the night. He was a mere…um…six inches away from me. I SO wanted to jump his bones! I didn’t (obviously) because (hello!) I was on a date with someone else. So no name exchanges, no phone number swap, just a casual, “Great show, thanks.” And my date walked me back to my car.

As soon as I arrived home, I pounded out an e-mail to C'mon Kid. By Man Eater standards, the missive was a totally tame…except for the subject line, which read "You’ve gotta lot of balls…"

I didn’t expect a response. Really, I didn’t. When I saw C'mon Kid's reply pop up only moments later, my heart almost seized...

I arrived at a local TV station for another routine interview about my memoir INSATIABLE. This would be my first time, however, discussing the book with a male host.

Anchor Man greeted me backstage. He was distractingly dashing, with stiffly coiffed hair, big blue eyes, and a hearty Midwestern build. I was sure I'd drool all over him in front of the entire Twin Cities viewing area. The icing on this beefcake? No wedding ring!!! I couldn't wait to open wide (legs, mouth, whatever) and binge!

“You’ve got a strong handshake!” Anchor Man marveled.

In my fantasy re-enactment of this moment, I would’ve said, “If you think my handshake’s strong, imagine what I can do with my kegel muscle!” Add a sexy wink, plus twinkle sound effect, and Anchor Man would’ve demanded we make a porno right then and there.

Obviously, I didn’t say that to Anchor Man, but I held out hope that perhaps he’d suggest a drink after the show a la David Letterman. Or Jimmy Kimmel. Or any number of TV hosts getting it on with whatever pussycat that walks by with a microphone clipped to her hip.

Unfortunately, my appearance on the show was solely to discuss anorexia, which is about as far from sex-pot material as you can get. At the end of the interview, when the show cut to commercial, Anchor Man mentioned that his dad hung out daily at my old coffee shop stomping grounds where I’ll be signing books that weekend.

“No way!” I said. “Who’s your dad?”

(Cheeks aflame at my thisclose come-on.)

Anchor Man brushed my question off like a crumb on his crotch. He didn’t even acknowledge me now that the cameras weren’t rolling. I would’ve liked to knee him in the family jewels had the crew not been standing there. I had just poured my guts out on live TV about the most painful events of my life and he couldn’t even offer up his dad’s name!!!

So I drove home, alone as always, a copy of INSATIABLE in my purse and an even fiercer hunger for an alpha male between my thighs.

Writers (if they get any work done) have a solitary lifestyle. To feel less alone, I listen to the local indie radio station while I blog.

One night, the DJ had a distinct voice; nothing like those annoyingly perky or arrogant radio show hosts you hear on commercial radio. His humor was the kind that just happens, no rehearsal necessary.

I immediately Googled DJ for a visual; he wasn’t sexy, per se, but the more I listened to him chatter away, the more alluring he became.

At 1AM, during a pause between his kick-ass song selections, DJ said, “This gig is really lonely. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to space.” Then he described his miserable day, which ended with his Diesel jeans splitting. “I blame it all on my Mountain Dew and Snickers diet,” he sighed.

Hello! I prefer my men sans pants anyways! And the bigger the ass, the more for me to grab onto when he’s, um, Dew-ing me!

I clicked on over to Facebook to track this guy down. “I am of average height and weight” was all his profile said. Good enough.

“Bummer about your jeans,” I wrote on DJ’s wall. “I wish I had a visual.”

DJ responded soon after and we had a brief flirtatious exchange. My curiosity now piqued, I consulted Google again and found that yes, there does exist such thing as a Mountain Dew cake! I made it, I tried it, and…blech. Only after I topped the cake with mounds of Cool Whip and chopped Snickers bars was it edible...and then, just barely. As for the man who inspired the recipe? I still haven’t gotten a taste...or seen the ripped jeans for myself...

I was searching Facebook for a former classmate when I stumbled upon Fire Writer’s photo. While the initial urge to befriend Fire Writer was physical, I took the obligatory ten seconds to scan his profile. The fact that he was a writer sealed the deal.

Normally, if I befriend someone I’ve never met (not exactly an anomaly in cyberspace), I add a note so they don’t think I’m a freak. In Fire Writer’s case, I didn’t. I wanted to see if he was a curious cat like me. My hunch was right. He approved the friend request first (My kind of man: act now, ask questions later.) and penned a message later. He had me at "Have we met?"

It wasn’t until after swapping flattering one-liners that I thought to Google this guy and see what made him tick. Boy, do I know how to pick 'em! Fire Writer had published several books...and an essay in a national men’s magazine, in which he described sitting, sans pants, at his desk, getting his muse on to a frothy pop singer. OMG.

Alas, as is my insatiable nature, I kept searching for more…until I hit the Too Much Information booby trap. The next essay I read described, gulp, Fire Writer’s honeymoon. Oh (married) man!

And yet...teasing has continued...and it's not entirely one-sided. (My lips are zipped. Some yummy things are not meant to be shared.) I read his book; he read mine. Mutual admiration abounds. I don't have his digits, but I have his number. What happens next remains unwriten...here's hoping it's as steamy as the love story Fire Writer's known for...(and if it is, that's one story I'll keep to myself!)

Though Music Mensch was old enough to be my father, he was so much fun to flirt with online. I knew he had connections in the local writing community, but it wasn’t until he suggested a face-to-face that I Googled him--and found out how big his…um…reputation was. Aside from writing a book on a famous girl band and hob-knobbing with Prince, there was even a caffeinated beverage named after him! That sealed the deal. I had to meet this man!

While I wasn’t sure if this qualified as a “date”, I really wanted it to be. I was so excited, I had stars in my eyes. I was astonished that Music Mensch was even willing to give me the time of day. When he walked in the café, I wanted to do the “I’m not worthy!” bow like Mike Meyers did to Alice Cooper in “Wayne’s World”. The most surprising part? It seemed like the feeling was mutual! Neither Music Mensch nor I considered ourselves worthy of the other.

Aside from being savant-level smart, Music Mensch spoke in song lyrics, told me stories about interviewing celebrities, gave me tips on my book proposal, made me LMAO about the effect of furry animals on masculinity (inside joke), and gushed about how pretty I am (a girl never gets tired of hearing that!).

As if that wasn’t impressive enough, Music Mensch brought me an Elvis Presley cookbook! The cover featured the blatantly metaphorical hot dog and “Are you hungry tonight?” in red lettering. (Honey, I’m hungry ALL THE TIME.)

Bestill my foodie heart.

Music Mensch immediately flipped to Elvis’s trademark recipe: a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, also known as the Velvet Elvis. I'd never made the King's favorite snack before, but the timing couldn't have been better: it was the week of Elvis's 75th birthday!

I went home and made the sandwich immediately. It was incredibly sexy and as photogenic as Elvis himself. When I sent the shots to Music Mensch, he replied, “That’s not a sandwich, that’s a work of art!”

Flattery will get you EVERYWHERE...

Braiser Babe (hence nicknamed because his specialty is in the meat department) came along exactly when I needed a shoulder to cry on. It was shortly after the launch of this website and I was in hot water with one of my subjects.

Braiser Babe could have been my third flirtation with a married man, but I’d just decided married dudes are like tattoos: once you lose count of how many you’ve collected, you've gotta stop.

For the first time ever, I vowed to keep my Man Eater urges in check.

I mentioned all this during the weekly family dinner (the less secretive these things are, the less enticing it is to do something naughty). When my mom saw Braiser Babe’s photo, she squealed.

“He’s sooo cute! Oh! And look at his wife! She’s nice,” Mom said definitively, as though testifying before a jury.

Mom looked at me. “She’s NICE, Erica.” It was as though she were verbally jabbing me in the ribs and saying, “BEHAVE this time.”

“I’m not going to do anything, Mom,” I said. “This guy’s a sweetheart. He’s going to teach me how to cook meat!”

“I’m glad,” Mom said. “You need a buddy…to practice with.”

(No, she did not mean a “fuck buddy”, in case you thought this seductress thing was genetic. She meant a man without ulterior motives with whom to improve my boundaries.)

I was really excited about this new foray into platonic friendship (I’m serious! No benefits!) because Braiser Babe and I had a profound love--for edibles.

After a week or so of email exchanges, Braiser Babe made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “Me, you, $40, and an Asian grocery on University Avenue. It sounds kinky, but it’s not.”

“It doesn’t sound kinky,” I replied. “Dirty, maybe."

We set the date, but uncertainty was eating me up inside. Instead of playing games, I told Braiser Babe the truth--that I was worried I'd get abandoned again.

"Fret not," he replied. "There is no abandonment."

BULLSHIT.

After spending a Facebook-free day with his family, Braiser Babe returned to cyberspace and not only canceled our meetup, he swore off contact with me “indefinitely.”

Intoxicating Artist caught my eye before I knew he was taken. Because we socialized in the same circle, we’d crossed paths a few times, but never been properly introduced. Then I went to one of his concerts. Though it was dark in the club and we were on opposite sides of the room, when Intoxicating Artist glanced at me, I got so hot, I thought I’d spontaneously combust.

Then an announcement came on: It was Intoxicating Artist’s birthday...his 42nd birthday.

“Oh…” I sighed in defeat, feigning appropriateness (as if age ever stopped me from seduction before!).

“He doesn’t look that old,” my mom (a.k.a. my wing woman) said encouragingly.

“You know what?” I said, feisty me taking the reins. “I’m going to send Intoxicating Artist a drink with my number.”

I pulled out a business card and scribbled, “Love is the only law I live by.” (Referencing one of the songs from the concert.) “Coffee sometime?”

Before delivering the card, plus a cocktail, to Intoxicating Artist, I stopped into the bathroom to reapply my lip gloss.

Mistake.

There was a trio of ladies chatting by the sink; one mentioned Intoxicating Artist’s name in a wifey way. Then I saw her hand.

Yup. Married. To Intoxicating Artist.

So I did the upright and moral thing and tore up and trashed my suggestive business card. If Intoxicated Artist was married, I must have exaggerated the eye contact interaction. I mean, jeez, men and women can LOOK at each other without fucking having to follow, right?

Fast forward six months to the next time I saw Intoxicating Artist, at another concert. This time, he mentioned he was on Facebook.

Ahh, Facebook! A writer’s ideal milieu for seduction.

After a couple of e-mail messages, I was sure I wasn’t imagining the attraction anymore.

“Danger! Red flag. Danger!” Mom wrote me when I gave her the tamest version of my latest exchange with Intoxicating Artist.

I knew it was wrong. But it was also irresistible. Brain said no. Body said yes. Part of me (the devilish part), thought that if Wifey couldn’t keep her hot hubby in check, then it was partly her fault if Intoxicating Artist took a walk on the wild side with me.

You know what they say: Finders, keepers…

He's sweet. He's sexy. He cycles. He's the kind of guy you bring home to Mom. So why am I not head over heels? (Or at least spread eagle?) It could be faulty chemistry...or Lima Bean Boy might be the one who finally slows Man Eater down.

This story is still unfolding...

If I learned anything from cooking, it was that variety is the spice of life. I’d never dated anyone shorter—or skinnier—than me, but My Little Indian was so charming via e-mail that he convinced me to trash my shallow man checklist.

My Little Indian and I were nothing alike. He lived downtown, worked in technology, and at 27 years old, still hadn’t learned to drive. I was a single suburban mom who spent her free time doing yoga and running marathons.

Our one commonality? Food.

On New Year’s Day, our third date, My Little Indian made me masala rice. We ate on his couch, our plates on our laps, and watched Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations”. The dish was fabulous, the show was hilarious, but when we got to the bedroom, the chemistry fizzled.

My Little Indian disrobed and I stared, dumbfounded, at his puny body. While his chest was hairy, he had absolutely no muscle tone. His body was so small and delicate, I felt like I was molesting a 12-year-old girl, not making out with a grown man.

It was the most unappetizing hook-up of my life.

“I want this to last forever,” My Little Indian whispered between kisses.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Marathon Man was all wrong for me. He was a blue-collar laborer, hunter, and was young enough to still have braces on his teeth. The only reason I agreed to go out with him was because he was a runner. And he liked to eat.

“This is delicious,” I said as I tucked into my kung-pao shrimp on our third date. “I should cook with nuts more often. They add such a nice crunch and flavor.”

“Peanuts, yum,” he said, jabbing his fork at my plate.

They were cashews.

A man who couldn’t tell his nuts apart. This was so not going to work.

Up until then, Marathon Man had been lukewarm, affection-wise. I didn’t want to fuck him, per se, but I wanted HIM to want me.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said when Marathon Man pulled up to my house.

He smiled wide and scanned my body like he had x-ray glasses on.

In an instant, he swooped in and attached his mouth to mine like a Hoover hose. Then he flipped up the console between us and pulled me on top of him. Despite our winter weather gear, he pumped my hips up and down, grinding his pelvis into mine.

I resisted. He insisted.

Marathon Man yanked my pants down to my knees. My bare ass glowed as brightly as the full moon above us.

“I have to go,” I said, re-covering my butt with my jeans.

“Why?” Marathon Man asked. “I’ve never heard someone say ‘stop’ so many times while enjoying themselves so much.”

“I’m trying to keep my pants on,” I said.

“Well, you kept your panties on. Close enough.”

I met Gorilla Guy on match.com.

I’d been warned about how skanky online dating had become, but I was in the midst of a nine-month dry spell and about to go out of my mind. Clickety-click, I put a profile up. Within twenty-four hours, I received Gorilla Guy’s introductory e-mail and cell number.

Gorilla Guy was the biggest man I’d ever dated. At 274 pounds, he was pure beefcake.

Within 72 hours, we were at his house, microwaving chicken patties and making out. My ass was in his hands, my legs were wrapped around his waist, and, had I let him, he would’ve fucked me right there on the kitchen counter.

For our second date, I prepared a homemade feast, but when Gorilla Guy arrived, he said he wanted to go out for burritos.

“That’s fine,” I said.

Before I could put the food away, Gorilla Guy stabbed at a crispy chicken breast fresh from the oven and stuffed it in his mouth.

“This is good!” he said through a full mouth, extending the fork toward me. “Try it.”

“I KNOW it’s good,” I said. “I cooked it.”

After Gorilla Guy devoured my breast, we went to Chipotle, where he packed away a burrito, chips, and guac.

This man had an appetite! And for the first time, it was TOO much for me. Judging by his technique between the sheets, he’d either had a laundry list of lovers or watched a lot of porn. By the end of our four-course fuck, I could hardly walk.

I was so uncomfortably stuffed, I swore off sausage until I found a serious relationship.

My yoga mentor set me up with Private Gumby, one of her students. On our first--blind--date, we went to a yoga class for couples. As if contorting myself into a pretzel with a stranger wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, a reporter from the Star Tribune interviewed us about the class halfway through. Though Private Gumby was physically flawless, I barely felt a spark.

After yoga, we chatted over tea and yogurt parfaits. Private Gumby—despite his stint as a soldier in Afghanistan—was as bland as his vegetarian diet. He was a single father, homeowner, government employee and gardener.

Then Private Gumby mentioned he’d been searching the ‘net for bike parts. His sexiness skyrocketed.

“You have a motorcycle?” I asked breathlessly.

Private Gumby nodded.

“What kind?” I asked.

“A Ducati.”

A hunk of granola lodged in my throat; after I cleared the airway, I said, “No. You. Don’t.”

“Yeah,” he said, unimpressed with his own mode of transportation.

Suddenly my goal flip-flopped from getting Private Gumby in bed to getting on the back of his bike.

“You have to take me for a ride,” I said.

On our next date, he did, but Private Gumby was as tame at riding as he was at romance. Physically, I didn’t get further than a hug. While I was offended that Private Gumby didn’t want to fuck me, I also recognized that I what I lusted after was the motorcycle, not the man.

Jail Bird was a former convict and former addict who'd been saved by Jesus. After spending his 20's flying from coast-to-coast gang-banging, dealing drugs, and doing time, he should have been unshockable.

And yet, I managed to scare him off...with a spud.

“The other night I noticed something,” he said one morning over coffee. “And it kind of freaked me out.”

I retraced the evening in question for any Freudian slips, bats in the cave, or open barn doors, but I couldn’t fathom an obvious offense.

“You only ate the skin off your potato,” he said.

Oh. That. Call it a carb-phobic quirk. Didn't Jail Bird notice the 9-ounce steak and jumbo shrimp I devoured alongside it?

“You only ate the INSIDE of your potato,” I pointed out.

“That’s different.”

“Look at it this way,” I said, swinging into saleswoman mode. “We’re a perfect match; together we eat a whole potato!”

“That’s scary shit, man,” Jail Bird said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready for this.”

Several years ago, I was a non-degree-seeking student in a collegiate writing program. Because I only wanted to get my feet wet in the department and this particular genre was not my strength, I signed up for an undergraduate class in fiction.

Admittedly, being the only 25-year-old single mother in a class full of 18-year-olds was awkward. Even more so as the instructor, Adorable Dork, was my age.

Adorable Dork and I butted heads all semester long, mostly over whether or not John Gardner, author of “The Art of Fiction” was a genius (his opinion) or an egocentric asshole (mine).

Perhaps because I wanted life to imitate art or because I never could resist an opportunity to push the envelope, I wrote my final short story of the semester about a writing student who seduces her professor, submits a story about it to (and wins!) a writing contest, thereby causing the professor to lose tenure.

I hadn’t been discreet in the details; my professor character was identical to the Adorable Dork in physical and personality traits, right down to the tattoo on his forearm.

My story, like everyone else’s final project, was distributed to all the other students and critiqued in class. Needless to say, mine generated a lot of buzz and garnered an immediate private conference with Adorable Dork.

“If this were any other instructor or any other course,” Adorable Dork said. “You could be in trouble.”

“What?” I exclaimed, aghast. “You should be flattered! I only write about people who fascinate me.”

“Are you trying to get back at me for something?” he asked.

“Writing is too much work for revenge.” I replied.

Alas, my story did not snag me the title of Teacher’s Pet. Who did? A perky journalist student who brought Adorable Dork a tray of homemade brownies on the last day of class. Talk about brown-nosing!

Dr. Hottie was the man responsible for rehabing my battered runner's body. Dr. Hottie was like Puck--though with a different degree, a wedding ring, and a few wrinkles.

After two years of intermittent treatment, Dr. Hottie abruptly left the clinic where I'd been seeing him. His colleagues were hush-hush about his whereabouts; it made me wonder what had prompted his departure.

“How did you find me?” Dr. Hottie asked when I showed up for an appointment at his new, obscure office locale.

“It wasn’t easy,” I said. "I had to Google you."

“Did you find the cartoonist?” he asked. “There’s a guy who does Spider Man comics with my name.”

“Um, no…” I said.

You’re all the superhero I need, I thought.

"So what brings you in?" he asked.

"An aggravated groin."

(No, I'm not kidding. I'd just been diagnosed by another doc, but given the choice, I'd rather have Dr. Hottie palpating my groin than the other guy.)

Among Dr. Hottie's suggestions: insoles, physical therapy, and protein shakes. Dr. Hottie scribbled all this down and handed me my instructions. It was then that I noticed: Dr. Hottie wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Did this mean Dr. Hottie was fair game?

Foodie Dude and I met at the same writer’s retreat where I seduced Aries (see his story below). I was instantly drawn to Foodie Dude—and not just because he was one of the few students at the retreat with a Y chromosome. Foodie Dude was a cutie pie with an innocent grin and a teeny-bopper singing voice that could have won him a place in The Backstreet Boys.

It wasn’t long before I fell in love—with his writing, that is. Foodie Dude had a way with words, an ability to describe eating that was almost as delicious as the actual act. To hear him read a restaurant review was akin to an aural orgasm. I can still recall a line about a flavor “somersaulting” over his taste buds.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t me that Foodie Dude craved.

“I am so jealous!” he said as we sat, side by side, in the living room of the inn. I was awaiting Aries’s arrival for our first date.

I turned to Foodie Dude. The flames in the fireplace crackled.

“You are going to fuck Aries!” Foodie Dude exclaimed. “He is so hot!”

At age 25, I retreated to New Mexico for a memoir workshop with Natalie Goldberg.

That winter, Taos was suffering from a drought--in eligible bachelors. After a week in residence, I hadn’t met even one single, straight man.

That is, until a guest showed up at the workshop.

“This is Aries, my former student,” Natalie said in her Long Island drawl, presenting a tan hottie with bald head, trimmed goatee, and toned body.

Bingo: my only chance to get laid on vacation.

"More challah!" Natalie urged the next night, nudging me toward the bread.

"You know what I really want?" I said. "Aries's phone number."

As soon as I had his digits, I invited Aries to “dinner with no-strings-attached dessert.” We had a one-night stand so delicious, I missed my plane home accidentally-on-purpose...and returned to Aries’s apartment for seconds.

I wanted to get busy. He wanted to get down to business. Did we arrive at a satisfying compromise?

“That looks like a dog dish,” I said when Married Man picked up his lunch tray. The soup bowl was the same shade of orange as the tomato broth inside and big enough for a St. Bernard.

“Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to see us?” I asked when Married Man chose a table facing Chicago Avenue. We never went out in public--especially to eat.

“Are YOU?” he asked.

“No,” I said, stealing Married Man’s bread off his tray and ripping it in half. “But I have nothing to lose.”

“Part of me wouldn’t mind getting caught,” he said. “It would be easier if The Wife left me.”

I peeled the innards of the bread from the crust and angrily dunked the clumps into the soup.

“Why are you waiting for everyone else to make the hard decisions for you?” I asked.

“That’s what a boy does, isn’t it?”

“You’re not a boy anymore,” I said, stabbing at my salad. “You’re almost 50 years old!”

“But I’m so inexperienced. I’ve never let myself desire anything before. You’re my role model in that way.”

“If I’m your role model, you’re in trouble,” I said with a smirk.

“So what frightens you, Ms. Fearless?”

I sighed and set my silverware down. “Having just this for the rest of our lives.”

I’d barely licked the last drop of dressing from my fork when Married Man loaded up our dirty dishes.

“I have to go,” he said, pouting like the little boy he claimed to be. “If I don’t mow the lawn today, I'm going to have some explaining to do.”

“Are you prepared to lose me?” I asked.

“I don’t want to,” he said. “I want to marry you.”

“You've gotta get divorced first.”

“I always forget that part,” Married Man sighed. He turned toward the door of the cafe. “I have to get a slice of quiche."

“You’re still hungry?”

“For The Wife,” he said. “It’s her favorite.”

“Freud would have a lot of fun with me,” I said as I plopped down in a plush recliner in my shrink’s office.

The-Rapist swiveled away from his desk. He was dressed in his uniform of crisp khakis and a turtleneck sweater.

“Say more about that,” he responded in his cryptic psychobabble.

“I’m addicted to inappropriate men.” I rattled off my roll call of conquests.

The-Rapist, perched in his chair, knees hanging open, was not fazed.

"And the problem is...?" he asked.

* * *
Legalities prevent me from elaborating further; you'll have to fill in the blanks for yourselves. Suffice to say I will never see a male shrink nor will The-Rapist be treating patients (of any sex) ever again.

Story for another time...

Pumpkin Eater was the perfect-on-paper man who tried to woo me over with a homemade meal on our third date.

“You cook very well,” I said between bites of broiled salmon.

Pumpkin Eater grinned. “I hope it’s not the only thing I do well.”

Unfortunately, it was. In the boudoir, Pumpkin Eater couldn’t have lit my fire with a blow torch.

Though we attempted many times to heat things up—over dishes as exotic as ma po tofu and moo shoo pork—our relationship remained lukewarm.

Years later, when I asked Pumpkin Eater for his recollection of our first picnic together, he replied, "I remember it was a beautiful spring day and you wouldn’t kiss me. But I cannot remember what I fed you."

For me, food was the only thing worth remembering!

EconMan was my former high school teacher and a lifelong bachelor. While his appetite for sex was on par with a nymphomaniac, his love for food was miniscule.

“I don’t understand why eat out so much,” he whined after paying the restaurant bill one night.

“It’s what couples DO,” I said.

Because money was EconMan’s obsession, I wanted him to prove with his wallet what he couldn’t with his words. Being treated to dinner made me feel more loved.

"You eat more like a college frat kid than a cover girl," he once told me.

EconMan cut back on the extravagant meals out; soon he started cooking at home--and I stopped eating.

When EconMan denied me restaurants, I denied him sex. Our relationship left both of us hungering for more.

My new Spanish professor, a short intellectual with dorky glasses and lisp-y accent from Valencia, seemed like an ideal seduction target. Despite rumors that Professor Orange was gay, I was determined to convince him to switch teams.

One day, I parked my car a few blocks from campus and feigned needing a ride. “No” is practically a curse word in Spanish; I knew his Castilian sensibility wouldn’t allow him to refuse me a favor.

“I hope no one sees us,” he said as he unlocked his car and opened the door for me. “Or I’ll have to explain how you earned your A+.”

I didn’t get into his pants that day, but I did get a Frappucino and a tour of his apartment.

I continued my attempts at winning over Professor Orange but nothing was reciprocated...until the end of the semester when a solitary Hershey’s kiss appeared anonymously in my campus mail box.

Banana Man was the next of kin to The Mexican and my former brother-in-law. I had a major crush on Banana Man...until The Mexican and I split. (But don't you ever Google "Mexican Banana Split" or you'll be sorry!)

I married The Mexican when I was 17. He was even more clueless than me about cooking; once, he called me at work because he didn’t know how to turn on the oven! His culinary skills didn’t surpass his signature dish: "queso fundido" (a.k.a. microwaving cheese until it bubbled into a crispy brown disc.)

My hubby's favorite meal was Mole, a Mexican chocolate sauce served over chicken. Though my mother-in-law offered to teach me how to make it, I refused. I couldn't stand the stuff.

My relationship with The Mexican was as emotionally empty as it was nutritionally and after six years, two daughters, a custom-built home, and a cocker spaniel, our wedded bliss went stale.

I never made the Mole. Would it have saved our marriage?

My first crush was a thespian. Fuck Buddy and I met just before my 15th birthday in a theater production. I was a choir girl; he was the show’s sole villain--and twenty years my senior.

“The artichoke dip sounds amazing,” Fuck Buddy said as he set down his menu during one of our midweek rendezvous. “Have you ever had artichokes?”

“Of course,” I said with an exaggerated air of sophistication, though in truth I was as learned in fancy appetizers as I was in sex—which is to say, not at all. “I just don’t like seafood much.”

Fuck Buddy shook his head and smiled.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he said.

With Fuck Buddy’s guidance, I grew up fast. I also developed a lifelong appreciation of friends-with-benefits...and artichokes.

While the rest of my high school peers were ga-ga for Josh Hartnett (yes, THAT Josh Hartnett), I only had eyes for a scruffy hunk on the swim team. I lost track of Captain Crush after graduation...until ten years later, when I bumped into our mutual friends on Facebook! What will unfold? Follow the blog to find out!