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