They are lying next to you in bed. Your eyes are closed, your head is fuzzy. Your body is basking in the warm woodfire you’ve created beneath the sheets, where your human legs act as wooden logs.
Their arm reaches out to touch yours and you peel open your doting eyes. Loving looks and hand strokes are exchanged until it happens: your tummy rumbles. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
A potion of thin air and nothingness whirls around your insides: your stomach is hollow. Your body moans but not in a sex way, in a food way. Your lover hears the sound and giggles, then asks the question: “Do you want to get something to eat?” That’s a good question: Do I? And if I do, what do I want to eat with ? Do I like this person enough to venture out into the real world and sit with them at a for all of the world to see? Or is it best to keep them a secret in my sex labyrinth and just feed them the arse-end of the loaf of bread? Do I love them deeply, and want to promenade with them in a royal park? I could put on a frilly Jane Austen picnic and feed them homemade bread and raw cheese? Or do I hate them deeply and want to offer them a tepid tap water in the dirty glass I keep my toothbrush in? I didn’t always see the link between food and sex, but now that I do, I can’t unsee it.
The food you eat with your lovers can mean more than the sex itself. It started with my first love, my stoner boyfriend when I was 18. We’d spark up Camberwell carrots in my childhood bedroom and lay .