 |
|
Summer Sex |
|
|
Eat Me: A Novel Fermentation: An Erotic Novel |
|
Organized social nudism was introduced in Germany around 1930.
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|
Warning: The following story contains generalizations that are not meant to insult men who love Julia Child or women who live for McDonald's. The warm, viscous honey drizzled down over the spoon in a caramel-colored stream. It hit just on the clavicle, making a shallow pool that ran along the collarbone to the hollow at the base of the throat and flowed down the sternum before spreading out over her breasts. No, wait. That sounds too sticky. How about... The frozen raspberries pressed into her skin like jam spread over hot toast. As they crushed into the flushed epidermis they made tasty streaks of bright pink flesh. The icy temperature felt especially pleasant along the line that divides thigh from hip, where it cooled the heat between her legs. Is that too messy? Maybe... It took a second for the pale green wasabi to tingle. Then the sensation hit and her nipples tightened. Another bit of the wicked spice rubbed across her quivering lips and she fought against the need to lick, knowing she'd be exposing her tongue to a painful touch. Would that really work? What about... Creamy homemade mayonnaise lay in a small mound at the base of her spine. With one finger it was carefully spread down the line that bifurcated the body, slipping down in between her thighs. A mouth followed the trail. Is there danger of food poisoning? One of the things that men have going for them is that, when it comes to sex, society, God, the media, even their mothers support the motto: Just Do It. For women it's a lot more complicated. Possibly the only subject about which women receive stronger conflicting messages is food. So it's no wonder that the vortex of these relationships is a hot topic of discussion. Two recent and much-talked-about erotic novels, Eat Me and Fermentation, explore the subject from opposite ends of the spectrum (and the world, incidentally), but both reveal that women do like to eat and have sex--especially at the same time. Men and women have different attitudes about sex and food. For men it's about the performance; for women it's the experience. Ask a guy when was his best time and you're more likely than not to hear "the last time," snicker, snicker. Women will offer an exhaustive description (they're much more likely than guys to provide gory details) of candles, music, oil-covered sheets--something more about the wind-up than the hit. This divergence shows up in the kitchen as well. Men don't marinate. They slap something (preferably lots of things) onto a grill, wait as briefly as possible and then inhale the results. It's about quantity, not quality. For many women, the kitchen is a sensual place where they've jostled between the warm heat of the stove and the chill of the freezer, smelled the earthy scent of yeast rising and the sharp tang of garlic as it's chopped, felt the soft sensation of running fingers through spongy, fresh dough, and heard the crisp sound as a sharp knife slides through firm cucumbers (but that's a whole other story). Beyond the sensory whirl that comes from simply being in a kitchen, there's the equally intoxicating sense of magic that comes from learning to cook. It's an amazing thing to watch dark batter become springy cake, well-kneaded dough turn into airy, chewy baguettes, cream whipped into a different dimension, and, most miraculous of all, plump shimmering egg yolks carefully mixed with oil to make mayonnaise. Here's visual and oral proof that foreplay gets results. The kitchen also teaches that the same preparation doesn't work for all ingredients or on all occasions. For men, sex is an all-or-nothing equation of action=reaction. Women accept that varying the recipe can have sometimes incredible, sometimes disastrous results. Take your average piece of meat. It can be grilled, broiled, baked, pan-seared, ground, poached, deep-fried or fricasséed. The results won't be the same--or even equal--but sometimes following the recipe is reward enough. Australian transplant Linda Jaivin, author of Eat Me, understands the women/food/sex interaction. Her breezy novel is a bit of a trick--it's a book within a book within a book (I think)--but a fun romp. The primary characters, four unmarried, sexually active professional female friends in their 30s living in Sydney, meet for dinner, coffee and drinks and discuss latest conquests, embarrassments, prospects and what to eat. Though the fantasies they share are provocative, the book is at its most erotic when they feed each other. "Phillipa preferred to be alone when she cooked. To make the soup she first took the crushed almonds and poured them into the blender. Then she picked up the bread she had soaking in milk and pinched it between her fingers, letting the milk run over her hands as, mashing the soft pulp, she squeezed out the last drops of liquid." Jaivin is a clever writer, and she spins fantasy and reality into such a smooth puree it's hard to tell which end is up. But throughout Eat Me, food plays an integral--and often funny--role. The opening scene in a grocery store produce section sets the stage: "She ran her fingers over the fresh figs. Surprising little sacs they were. Funny, dark and wrinkled, yet so exquisite on the tongue. Mother Nature had surely been thinking of Father Nature when she invented figs." Men wouldn't make that joke. In Angelica J.'s new erotic novel Fermentation, food is the sex. J (a pseudonym for a 34-year-old who works for a London-based book publisher) tells the impressionistic story with little dialogue. It follows Odissa, who is impregnated by an exotic fire-eater named Serge in Paris during a tremendous heat wave. As her stomach swells, she becomes more and more obsessed with cheese. She begins with Brie. "Brie should feel slightly plump and supple. It should have a It's a bad sign for Serge when, in the first line of this section, he tells her not to eat the cheese because "it will give you bad dreams." What it gives Odissa is the first in a series of food-related sexual fantasies, this one involving milking, then suckling, a large brown cow as a faceless farm hand (certainly not Serge) watches and then joins. As the heat rises, her stomach grows and Serge fades away, the fantasies grow more complex and outrageous--aside from a brief, unsatisfying encounter with processed cheese. Her craving becomes more gourmet after she stumbles into Le Fromage, a fantastical shop. After a dose of exquisite parmigiano reggiano, Odissa embarks on a moody fantasy of being taken to a strange man's house where he's already collected another girl. "I was thirsty and I bent my head down and began to drink of the young girl's sweet juices, lapping at her dark sex like I would suck over-ripe fruit." Unlike Jaivin's book, in which the end is as fresh as the first bite, J. comes to a predictable man-centered conclusion. But, as women know, the first bite is the best bite of all. |
||