Does anyone have a particular food fetish?
I have this thing for multigrain toast with lots of butter, salted peanut butter, and a layer of jam on top. But especially for peanut butter. Peanut butter is sex food for me.
Salted peanut butter on celery, on bananas, with jam, with chocolate chips, with brown sugar. Some folks even eat it with pickles, what do you say to that? I don’t think I’d enjoy it, but guess what. Because it involves PB, I would definitely try it. I would slurp it up.
There is an orgasmic quality to the way peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth and you need to pull at it and suck it off with your tongue. I suppose it’s probably reminiscent of the nursing instinct. I don’t feel infantile, but I do feel very sensual when the flavour of peanut butter is infusing my entire face, making me blush and flush with delicious pleasure, my whole mouth salivating, working away at that thick layer, until it finally reaches a climax of fullness and slides down my waiting eager throat. Oh my god, I feel a ripple of peanut butterish thrill running up and down my torso as I recall every detail.
Yes, if I were going to date a food, I suppose it would be peanut butter. I’d sleep with it on the first date, one hundred percent. We’d go slow dancing somewhere jazzy. I’d be the honey, stuck to PB’s side all evening long, and then later on we would merge together in a very salacious golden and swirling creamy mess of pleasure. We would come all over each other’s faces repeatedly. You wouldn’t be able to tease us apart in the morning.
I just went to the cute little cafe down the street and had a latte and a creamy, chewy peanut butter cookie at three o’clock pm. A total flavour-gasm.
Another hot energy surge as the taste lingers in my mouth, the sensation of creamy, salty resistance in between my teeth and tongue. Sighing. When I pass on from the richness of this life and they bury me, I hope it is with a jar of salted peanut butter beside me.
That’s all there is to it.