MAN EATER

Welcome to the last moment of my normal life. It’s a sunny Tuesday, one week before my 26th birthday, and I'm at my favorite coffee shop. The cursor on the blank screen of my Vaio flashes menacingly back at me as I await a flash of inspiration.

Then the door whooshes open, a burst of summer breeze snaps me from my daydreams, and in walks the hottest thing I’ve ever seen on two legs. At six feet tall with massive pecs, trim waist, and glutes as tight as two overinflated bike tires, he’s the kind of guy who can make even his pink dress shirt look macho.

He orders an espresso, saunters over to the bar, and spins a stir stick round and round in his little paper cup. I can’t take my eyes off him…or, more accurately, his ass.

He turns around. Our eyes meet. Neither of us smiles but I feel like I’ve just been struck by lighting—and I liked it.

The world as I know it has been obliterated.

The day after our first glance, mystery man sat down in what I’d deemed “the hot seat”: a chair across from my usual table where guys pretended to read the paper, check their e-mails, and drink complicated coffees while they worked up the courage to hit on me.

“I’ve seen you in here before,” he said.

I slapped my laptop shut and smiled.

The exchange of personal details came fast and furious: he was a sports medicine specialist, certified personal trainer, weight-lifter and cyclist.

Mystery man was so out of my league, I didn’t even entertain the idea he’d ask me out—until he reached into his back pocket.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he flipped a business card onto my table.

“Erica,” I said breathlessly, as though he were a celebrity signing an autograph for me.

“I’m Puck,” he said. “I’m Canadian, and I’m forward, so I’m going to give you my number.”

He patted his chest pocket for a pen. A writer, of course, always has one handy.

“What happened to your finger?” I asked as he jotted down his digits.

Puck held up his hand, where a makeshift cast was wrapped around his ring finger.

“I broke it playing hockey,” he said with a shrug.

It was, as far as I could see, his only defect.

Our first date was reality-show-worthy, including a sunset walk, a bucket of shrimp with fish tacos on the side, and a midnight ride on Puck’s Ducati Monster.

When Puck invited me up to his apartment, I hardly hesitated. Surely a hard-bodied bachelor like him would drop me as soon as I revealed my single mom status. This might be my only chance to go pelvis-to-pelvis with such a stunner.

I promised myself that I’d be responsible and restrained…next time.

“Happy birthday,” Puck said when we collapsed side-by-side after simultaneous orgasms.

“No one’s ever touched me like that,” I said as I trailed a finger across his sweaty chest. “It’ll be hard to top this present.”

On every subsequent date, Puck expanded my sexual and culinary repertoire. The more I feasted on my delicious man and our savory meals, the more ferocious my hunger became. Like the most luscious birthday cake creation, the bliss was all-consuming while it lasted. Then, after the ecstasy, came the sugar crash.

Our dates, if they even deserved that title anymore, were blinkably short. We swung between the communicative extremes: either we sat in stony silence or we pushed each other’s buttons—and not in the fun, foreplay way. We even argued naked. It was as if we’d reverted to grade school kids vying for a turn on the pogo stick.

Eventually, reality hit and the relationship imploded.

A year after our break-up, however, I was still obsessing over Puck. What, aside from mind-blowing sex, made this man so unforgettable? Then I realized: Puck was different because he fed me. With gusto.

If what I needed to heal my heart was nourishment, I had to learn how to cook for myself. I declared a dating hiatus and took refuge in the kitchen, vowing to assuage my appetite with food instead of men.

Over a year-and-a-half after that Puck-ing unbelievable first date, my dream man and I reunited over lunch. Had he changed? Had I? And more importantly, what did he feed me?

You'll have to read my forthcoming food memoir, MAN EATER, to find out!