Saturday, May 18, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Monday, August 27, 2012
Man Eater's boudior self-portrait was chosen as a finalist in The Gloss's Putting The Racy In Literacy contest. The piece featured in the photograph is Erica Rivera's own "Hot Buns on a Sunday Afternoon" essay, which was published in Rachel Kramer Bussel's Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex anthology in 2011.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Twin Cities' most notorious erotic food blogger got hitched to the son of an Episcopal priest on July 7, 2012. The ceremony took place before an intimate group of family and friends on the Northern Pacific Bridge #9 in Minneapolis.
The exchange of vows was followed by a backyard BBQ where the bride and groom gorged on his-and-her weenies and pies.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Man Eater's Come Again? Crème Brûlée French Toast is currently featured on seriouseats.com as part of their Share Your Sweets: French Desserts and Treats feature. Breakfast in bed, anyone?
Monday, April 23, 2012
You can find all of the diary archives here; as for which one features Man Eater's hijinks, you'll have to figure that out on your own. (Psst...it's not that hard...though you may be after reading it.) Happy hunting!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
As a celebratory New Year's gift to my readers, I've decided to post the Introduction and the first chapter of the Man Eater book for your reading pleasure. Once your appetite has been whetted, I urge you to download the entire e-book onto your hard drive or Kindle from Amazon.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Man Eater was cited in the Huffington Post regarding Nigella Lawson's caramel-coated photo shoot! Read what fellow erotica author Rachel Kramer Bussel concluded about the politics of food porn here.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
"No," I replied. "That's the only thing I don't do well."
I'm known for speaking the truth, no matter how messy, uncomfortable or graphic it may be. The words that filled your computer screens, when they came out, were 100% authentic. As time goes on, however, they don't read that way. I'm constantly transforming (and hopefully evolving) and what was once printed on this blog no longer feels like "me". Thus, I've decided to remove the majority of the archives. All of the Rock Star Guest Chef interviews are still here, as are a sampling of the best posts from the tamer side of Man Eater.
I truly appreciate your support over the last year-and-a-half and I hope that you will continue to follow my food-based adventures on www.crazysexydelicious.com.
If you're experiencing Man Eater withdrawal, be a doll and buy a copy of Man Eater, the e-book on Amazon.
Also, if you haven't heard the news yet, I'm single again, so I will also gladly accept flirtatious flattery, dinner invites and thoughtful gifts. :)
'Til our paths cross again...
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Missed one of my mouthwatering interviews? Catch up by clicking here.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
You know the drill: Boy meets Girl. Girl falls in love with a fantasy. Reality hits and relationship implodes.
My heartbreaker was Puck, a sports medicine specialist, seafood aficionado, and sex-pert all rolled into one. At six feet tall, with massive pecs, trim waist, and an ass as tight as a clenched fist, Puck was the kind of man who could make even his pink dress shirt look macho. He didn’t walk; he did a body-builder strut, the kind of stiff swagger seen on the likes of Sylvester Stallone. In fact, Puck resembled Rocky with his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp and a rough, gruff voice.
The Canadian cutie encouraged me to experiment. He taught me that eating wasn’t only for nourishment; it was a carnal, visceral, sensual experience. Puck filled my stomach—then he broke my heart.
Everyone has dated—and been dumped by—a Puck. And everyone finds a way to cope with the loss of love. Some knit. Some meditate. Some journal. Some drink. I took refuge in the kitchen. My goal: to recreate the meals I shared with Puck and heal my heart in the process.
As I baked and broiled my way through my former flame’s favorite dishes, other memorable men and the meals I shared with them came to mind. Soon I had a feast for every man I’d ever fallen for!
Cooking wasn’t the only task I tackled in the kitchen. My relationship with food mirrored the relationships with men. Each culinary venture revealed hidden wisdom about what went wrong with the affairs. By mastering the recipes, I relearned how to love. As I conquered more and more complex recipes, I reclaimed my self-esteem. As the cookbook came to fruition, so did the healing. Cooking was my cure for heartache.
Along with my oven, my love life heated up. Puck returned and requested a reunion, but both of us had undergone seismic personality shifts. I no longer needed a man to be well-fed or feel satisfied. The secret ingredient for happiness, I realized, was the ability to nourish myself.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My phone beeps with an incoming text around 7:30 PM.
The question: Do I want to go to Rock The Cause’s Valentine’s Day bash with a hunka burnin’ love?
Of course I do! But is this a good idea, to put myself face-to-face with temptation while I'm upset with The Baconator over his lackluster courtship?
ME: OK. What the hell.
HIM: Suggested 50’s attire—red n black, in case u care.
ME: I can do red and black but my clothes are all early 90s :)
HIM: Ha—it’s no bigs.
When I walk through the door of “The Mansion of Love”, the man checking my ID says, “You were here on Halloween, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” I say. “I’m surprised you recognize me, especially since I was in costume!”
“It’s the lips,” he says. “You have a memorable mouth.”
“Oh, jeez,” I say. “You’re going to make me blush!”
(I haven’t been complimented in a long time. Can you tell?)
I abandon my coat atop a liquor fridge and head toward the main stage area. On the way, I’m “recognized” by several people who have to re-introduce themselves because I can’t remember who they are or when we met. Have I been MIA from my own social life that long?
“Hey!” I say, when I spot the man of the hour. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, looking adorably grubby. His hair is darker than I remember and his beard is impressive. (Another dude even congratulates him on it later in the evening. You know why beards are sexy? ‘Cause only guys with lots of testosterone can grow ‘em! It’s true.)
He beams and hugs me.
“It’s been way too long,” I say.
“How are you?” he asks.
I sigh and smile that “I know you know but I’m going to pretend everything’s okay” smile. I suspect he’s been reading at least one of my blogs, ‘cause his invitation couldn’t have been better timed.
“I’m okay,” I say with a shrug.
He gives me the once over.
“You’re right, those are early 90’s,” he says, referring to my tight red tank with lace collar, tight black sweater with lace back, and tight slit skirt. (Did I mention they were tight?)
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“I mean, they’re classic. Timeless.”
He's totally lying to me. I don't mind. It feels good. I need all the reassurance I can get. I’m afraid my mojo has been waning lately. Or rather, I’m worried that The Baconator has become immune to it. I know I’m still sexy. It would just be nice if someone else noticed it.
“Is today Valentine’s Day?” he asks after a swig of his beer.
I give him the “Are you retarded?” look. He’s not kidding.
“Is it February 12th or February 14th?” he asks.
I flash the retard look again.
“Well, I saw hearts hanging from the ceiling at Target the other day, so I figured it was time to buy a card.”
“You did not.”
“I wish I had a better story, but that’s about how it went down,” he says.
Wow. Is this Valentine’s Day apathy encoded on the Y chromosome or what?! Suddenly, The Baconator’s resistance doesn’t seem so severe; at least he knows the date on which he’s supposed to disappoint me!
“I gave it to her on Friday,” my companion continues, referring to his S.O. “Just to be safe.”
I suppose you want to know who the mystery dude is, don’t you readers?
Drum roll please...
It was Casey Call. Yup, my buddy and former “boss” from Pictures of Then.
I could try to write the rest of the evening with an aura of innuendo as if something sexual *might* occur, but let’s be real. Casey’s hot, I’m hot, but together…um…not so much. I totally clam up around him, especially since I’ve been off the scene for so long. He knows more people than I do now in any given context. He’s the one schmoozing and introducing me to people.
Besides, both Casey and I are artists, which means even if we met in some alternate universe and were both single, it’d never work in the real world. The bills would never get paid, both of us would be insomniac and moody, he’d drink too much beer and I’d eat too much chocolate. It would be a disaster.
But let me repeat: he’s attached. As, technically, am I (until The Baconator or I decide otherwise…but we’ll get to that…). So while a little somethin' somethin' is what my devilsh twin would’ve fantasized about, in reality, I'm grateful to have Casey as a platonic friend. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes is awesome, too, but that’s not why I like spending time with him. He makes me laugh with his deadpan humor and unedited lewdness.
Speaking of which, within ten minutes, the talk turns dirty. When I join in his conversation circle with the drummer from The Icy Shores and a booking agent, it’s all about who has the biggest...um...instrument (Casey, or so he says), where he wants to put it in (not the back door), what toy is the most fun to play with (Rickenbaker) and which cupcakes rocks his world (red velvet applesauce).
“Are you glad you came?” Casey asks me during a break in conversation.
Had I been on top of my game, I would’ve said, “I haven’t yet!" with a wink wink nudge nudge. Instead I say, genuinely, “Yes. I really needed to get out.”
Joe Gamble (a.k.a. Pictures of Then guitarist and the life of any party) soon arrives.
“Have you met the blogger?” Gamble asks a musician we’re chatting with. He waves his vodka in my direction. “She will blog the shit out of this event.”
“Casey and I were just saying how charming you are,” I tell Gamble. “But you’re so unorganized. If only you could get your act together, you’d have it all!”
“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But don’t tell my wife that.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure she hasn’t realized it yet.”
“She hasn’t!” Gamble insists. He leans in and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “'Cause I’m really good in bed.”
I nod in that “Uh-huh, riiiight” way.
“I am,” he says.
Gamble swivels his pelvis suggestively at me. In his black tux and ruffled red satin shirt, he looks beyond ridiculous. He’s clearly several drinks in already.
“Don’t aim that thing at me!” I say, putting my hands out to block whatever crotch vibes he's sending my way.
“I know,” I say (having just found out his wife is pregnant). “And I don’t need anymore babies.”
It’s at this exact moment that two chicks in front of us turn around, wide-eyed.
“I know you heard that conversation,” Gamble says to them. They confirm they did. Every. Single. Word. Somebody shoot me now.
Embarrassment aside, it’s good to see and be seen. I only get hit on once (WTF?!), though I’m going to blame (or thank?) Casey for that. As I explained to him earlier, he has an intimidating aura. It’s part of the reason why I’ve held off on bringing The Baconator to any of the Pictures of Then gigs. Case(y) in point: we’re watching Alicia Wiley singing her intense, soulful tunes in the V.I.P. room. It's packed to the gills and it's sweltering. When Casey retreats to the W.C., a man inches up to me and semi-yells something in my ear.
“Do you know her name?” he asks, pointing at the stage.
“Alicia Wiley,” I say.
He compliments the performance and I add something equally uninventive like “Yeah, she’s awesome.”
“And what’s your name?” he asks.
I tell him, but the walls are up. My body language is not inviting any attention, even if my outfit is. As far as pick-ups go, this one is really awkward. The guy is standing so close to me I swear I can practically hear the gears in his brain squeaking as he tries to think of what to say next.
Saved by the rock star. Casey emerges from the bathroom wearing the biggest, most ridiculous pair of sunglasses ever.
“Oh my God,” I say. Neither Casey nor I can keep a straight face. We start giggling. The guy standing to next to me? Poof! Gone.
So, as you can see, Casey Call is the ultimate cock-blocker. (Perhaps this fact would reassure, instead of concern, The Baconator!)
I stay through Alicia Wiley’s set and most of The Melismatics, but by 11:30 PM, I’m ready for bed. (The Baconator’s early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine has rubbed off on me.)
I head home and check my email before going to sleep. Saturday night seems like an odd time to receive good news, but that’s how creative people work. Like dominoes, suddenly everything I’ve been waiting on to move forward does. I’ve received good news on two job opportunities and the Man Eater book is finally available on Amazon!
Lucrative opportunities for me to refocus my literary and culinary energies and a segueway to stop blogging are what I’ve been longing for. I feel relieved…but oddly, not happy...because I don't have anyone to share it with.
I want to text The Baconator but I don’t want to initiate contact, either. I’m stuck in that “I have to withhold” place again. Ugh.
I go to bed, sans gush session, and the next morning I awake to bright sunshine, 40-degree temps, and the feeling that a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel so fulfilled and grateful for all the good things happening in my life...but there's still that lack of excitement 'cause things aren't right with The Baconator.
Is it possible, I wonder, that I overreacted to The Baconator’s recent mood shifts? Could it be that I misinterpreted what he has already attributed to pre-travel and pre-V-Day stress? Maybe I just need to get back to yoga (I’ve cut back to spend time with The Baconator); maybe I need more fresh air and sunshine; maybe I need to know I still have friends—and that I’m capable of hanging out with them without feeling like I’m doing something “wrong”. Whatever it is that’s going on, I know I don’t want to lose The Baconator. On the contrary; I can’t wait to share this giddy sensation of achievement with him.
I go for a run to contemplate all this, and when I return, there’s a message from The Baconator congratulating me on the book. As for my most recent post? "Boo" is all he says.
“I’m so ready to stop blogging,” I tell him in my reply. “I bet you are, too.”
I don’t regret writing the T.G.I.Friday's post, but it did leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I think The Baconator is afraid of how he’ll be interpreted on the blog, so he’s choosing to withdraw instead. I don’t blame him. Situations and feelings are so fleeting, but what I write about them is permanently scrawled on the interwebs. It’s not easy being so exposed. I feel somewhat inoculated to it, perhaps in part because I’m “in control” of what gets put out there and in part because I’ve been putting it out there for so long.
I once told The Baconator that if it came down to my having to choose between him and the blog, I would choose him, no question. I think our relationship is in a precarious state at the moment and while he’d never ask me to keep quiet (well, except for the V-Day events that he’s asked I not share), having a real-time play-by-play of our relationship is not helping matters.
That’s a long and drawn out way of saying: I’m ready to close the Man Eater chapter of my life for good (besides the book plugs, of course!). Whilst rereading some posts from 2009 over the past few weeks, I see how much I’ve changed. It’s time to reinvent myself…and it’s time to reinvest myself in what I really want and need, which is a private relationship.
As I write this now, I’m getting ready for my V-Day date with The Baconator. Yes, to take the pressure off him, I made the plans…and I’m the only one who knows what they are. How’s that for secret keeping? It’s a start.
And this is my way of saying “The End”. Thank you, readers, for sticking with me for the past year-and-a-half. I will leave the archives on here for the time being (though I must admit, I have removed many posts that were incongruent with the new image I’m trying to project). I will also continue to blog PG, recipe-related posts, on the Crazy Sexy Delicious site. And, as always, you can (and should) order Man Eater: Seductive Stories and Mouthwatering Meals on Amazon so you can get your erotic food writing hit whenever you need it!
I don’t know what the future will bring, my dahlings; all I know for sure is that it's bound to be delicious!
When I Googled the recipe, I found out that Puttanesca is derived from the Italian word for “whore”. The dish is rumored to have originated in brothels, where prostitutes needed a quick dinner they could fix with whatever ingredients they had on hand between customers. Apparently, Italian whores always had black olives, anchovies, and capers in their cupboards. I am not an Italian whore (An attention whore, yes, but we’ll tackle that in another post), so this “easy” dish was a pain in the ass to shop for. I will say this, though: once the ingredients were ready to go, it only took 10 minutes, tops, to cook. A quickie, if you will.
While Spaghetti alla Puttanesca is very sexy-looking on a platter…it’s also very smelly. One online source claimed the charm of this dish is the sauce’s fishy scent that reminded a certain chef of…well, you can fill in the blank. My family only made it through a few bites before my step-dad cautiosly asked, “What’s in this exactly?” Once I admitted to the anchovies, the fork-to-mouth action slowed. I still polished off a plateful (experimentation = endorphins!). Good food, like good sex, is supposed to be raunchy.
After the ‘rents left, I putzed around, eating fistfuls of marshmallows (which I don’t even like!), until restlessness forced me outside for a long, wannabe-romantic walk in the snow with the man of the house (a.k.a. my poodle). Upon our return, I finished watching “The Hangover” while folding laundry. Sexy V-day, eh? Very bachelor-esque.
If you were alone this year, I can assure you it won’t be like that forever. As my favorite DJ once said during “The Greatest Breakup Songs of All Time” radio special, “Love will find you…and even if it doesn’t, just enjoy yourself.” Sage advice indeed. (That’s an herbal pun, BTW.)
I wish you a year filled with many xxx’s and “oh oh oh!” s. And lots of whore house food. Eat up. Eat out. Whatever. Just keep in touch!
WHORE HOUSE SPAGHETTI
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 ounces (2 tins) anchovies, drained and chopped
3 tablespoons capers, drained
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 can (14.5 ounces) stewed tomatoes, Italian style
1 cup spaghetti sauce
½ cup black olives, sliced
3 cups cooked spaghetti
• Heat olive oil over medium-high in large skillet.
• Add anchovies, capers, and garlic; cook 3 minutes.
• Add tomatoes, spaghetti sauce, and black olives; simmer 10 minutes, or until sauce is thickened.
• Serve over cooked spaghetti. Plug nose while eating if necessary.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
I hate to break it to you, but Valentine’s Day is not optional. I agree that V-day is a blatant—and often phony—expression of love via commercialism…but I don’t endorse ignoring the holiday altogether.
See, women have been brainwashed since birth about how being attached reflects on their worth as a person. It means something to her in the same way that having a big wedding matters, even if it’s just to parade around like a princess in front of her frenemies. Good men are hard to find; holding onto one is near impossible. Those of us ladies lucky enough to have a mate want this incredible fete acknowledged.
As I concluded in my last post, however, Valentine’s Day is a guaranteed let-down day for most women unless there’s an engagement ring involved. Even if you do your best, fellas, you’re probably going to fail.
But make the effort anyway.
If you’re part of a couple, V-day is just one of those “grin and bear it” events. Better to be with a bittersweet woman than be utterly alone. The key to a less painful evening is this: ladies are obsessed with feeling “special”. Buy, do, or plan something that speaks to her preferences and makes her feel spoiled.
As long as the night isn’t a total bomb, you can comfort yourself with the fact that February 14th is one of the few guaranteed nights you'll get a gift in return, too. (Nudge nudge, wink wink.)
One final tip: if you want V-day to take on less importance next year, try being more romantic in the 364 days leading up to it. If the holiday exists, it’s because Hallmark decided that men need a push to demonstrate their feelings.
As for my feelings about you, readers, know that I am always thinking of you, be it V-day or not. I heart you, totally, completely, unconditionally...even the haters (because you make me work that much harder).
Now go get your heart on!
Monday, February 7, 2011
I almost threw up in my mouth when I saw this. Plush toys are creepy. Not even making it potty-mouthed will convince me it’s cute.
(Photo courtesy of www.doobybrain.com)
A Dozen Roses
Flowers can be indescribably beautiful. They also die. I suppose there’s something poetic in that contradiction, but a dozen roses is too cliché for any day of the year. If you must express your love florally, do so in a unique way with an exotic bouqet. Or a bonsai tree. Even a sprig of lucky bamboo would do. Just don’t let some faceless stranger at 1-800-Flowers decide what your gift will look like!
(Photo courtesy of www.takemeouttotherunway.blogspot.com)
I’m around sweets 24/7. “Surprising” me with chocolate isn’t all that appetizing. Really jonesing to give me some sugah? Fine. Just make sure they’re not Ferrero Rocher. I can’t stand ‘em. I don’t know how they got so popular; I’d rather eat a dozen hairballs. I might consider some sea salt truffles but really, you gotta up the ante on balls for this food blogger.
(Photo courtesy of www.expedoodle.com)
Edible panties? Yes. Edible dresses? No thank you. Especially not if they’re Lindt. And I thought skirt chasers of the male variety were off-putting…
(Photo courtesy of 1800flowers.com)
Over-priced Restaurant Meals
I don’t mean to pick on Crave (I’ve heard their Mac & Cheese is to die for) but starving artists can’t rationalize dropping $75 bucks for dinner when a box of Kraft and a package of hot dogs will do. It’s not the size of the bill that impresses me; it’s the effort you put into it. A guy manning a stove (or better yet, a grill) really lights my fire. Can’t cook? Fine. Let’s go out to eat—but 24 hours before or after the big day, when dinner’s a fraction of the cost.
(Photo courtesy of onlinefloristperth.com.au)
Greeting cards are beyond impersonal. If you can't speak it, don't buy a piece of cardboard to say it for you. If you thought Hallmark was absurd with their five dollar price tags, check out the latest trend: giant greeting cards. For $25 to $50, you, too, can send your lover something totally cheesy and impossible to ignore! (Another don't: pets in costume.) Go ahead, give a card...but be prepared to be relocated to the dog house. Permanently.
(Photo courtesy of www.bigfunnycards.com)
Do I Sound Demanding?
Of course I do. Here’s why:
A woman will never be satisfied, no matter what you give her for V-Day, because what she really wants is precisely what you can’t afford—or aren’t willing to invest in. She wants you. All to herself. For all eternity.
She wants the rock—and a hefty one at that—as a symbol of how committed to her. Yes, it’s shallow….but a girl who finds a good guy wants to wear proof of his love in a place where everyone can see. No taken lady can resist bragging about how she snagged The One to random strangers or resisting showing off so all her girlfriends get jealous (don’t deny it, ladies). Agreeing to make monthly payments to Tiffany’s until you die is pretty fucking serious and she knows it.
(Photo courtesy of www.tiffany.com)
So. There you have it, dudes. The only thing that will really please her is an impressive sparkler. Go big or go home.
You know what song what I have to put in here. I apologize for contributing to the over-playing of this tune, but, hey, shortly after Beyonce recorded it, Jay-Z popped the question. Coinky-dink? I think not.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Man Eater's Hump Day Buns were front-and-center on Rachel Kramer Bussel's Lusty Lady blog. Yours truly penned the essay Hot Buns On A Sunday Afternoon for the Gotta Have It anthology (Cleis Press, 2011), which Bussel edited. The anal anecdote was based on the infamous Man Eater suitor pseudonymed Playboy.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Plane Ticket
There’s only one person authorized to make that purchase, so, ahem, if you’re feeling generous, you know what to do (and what airport I'm flying into).
For all the rest of you who want to spoil an appetite obsessed lady like me this V-day, how about:
A Classic Facial
Not that kind, you pervs. Cole’s Salon has gift certificates, though. Seventy-five smackeroons should do it. (See how expensive primping can be?! No wonder I'm broke!)
A Sexy Apron*
Because everything old is new again…and I desperately need a cover up enticing enough so I’ll actually wear it. This one from Jessie Steele is surprisingly palatable.
A Pimped Out Mixer
A writer friend of mine just got one of these Kitchen Aide beauties and she named it "Betty". I am soooooo jealous. Help me keep up with the Jones's! Kitten optional.
(Photo courtesy of Patty Cake Bakery on cupcakestakethecake.blogspot.com)
Gap has the softest fabric. I’d like an XS nightie in “plum” color, please.
Boxers and a cami are ok, too, as long as they allow for some morning “puff” (I don’t know why I wake up looking like the Michelin woman. I just do.) My preferred hue is ballerina pink (to match the perception of a slim physique in my head, LOL).
I know the shipping fee is God-awful, but I've been so nice lately, I really deserve a naughty indulgence...and Crumbs Bakery is the only place that makes "Good Guy" cupcakes (a.k.a. the best pastry on the planet!). Order now; they don't appear on my doorstep overnight, ya know.
A Bloody Valentine (a.k.a. Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain )
Confession: Aside from this blog and my Facebook feed, I haven't read in ages! (I owe so much dough to the library for late fees, I may never show my face there again!) Buy me some food for thought from the literary world's crudest author, would ya?
I know that most of you, no matter how much you say you “love” me, won’t buy me a V-Day gift. That’s okay. The way to really make this February 14th special would be to buy a copy of Man Eater, the e-book. (I’ll give you the Amazon.com URL as soon as I have it! Any day now!) I’ve gifted you all with 18 months of real-time blogging about the most personal of matters. Do me a solid and drop a few bucks on my behalf, please?
xoxoxxx (as always),
P.S. I'll tell you in a forthcoming post what not to give your lady love on V-Day...plus the one thing that every chic secretly craves...
*All photographs are courtesy of Amazon.com, the products' respective websites, or as otherwise noted. No copyright ownership intended.
And just because we're fantasizing and having fun...
Monday, January 10, 2011
Still with me? Cool. ‘Cause this post is about to heat up.
Let’s just put this out there: I’ve been butt-fucked a few times before. There were a couple of exploratory experiences with The Mexican while I pregnant with our second baby. Due to a history of miscarriage, we were afraid to have sex while I was knocked up…but (natch) we figured anal was safe. The Mexican was very gentle and just as inexperienced as I was in the fudge packing department, so I wouldn’t classify those sex sessions as anything life-altering.
Then there was Playboy. I’d say more about that, but the story was so delish, I sold it to Rachel Kramer Bussel for her soon-to-be-released Gotta Have It anthology. If you want the deets, go get it on Amazon.com and read my "Hot Buns on a Sunday Afternoon" essay (but make sure to save some dough for Man Eater’s e-book release)!
Now. Onto the nastiness at hand. Was the third butt fucker a charm(er)? Stay tuned...
It was 3 AM on a Monday morning. I was tossing and turning, flipping like a live fish on a hot griddle. The man in question was awake, too. Since we’d hit the sack really early (i.e. 10 PM), we were both rested enough to get up but not dumb enough to do so.
I curled up against my man’s bare chest; he started stroking my arm. One thing (his finger) led to another (my pussy) and before either of us knew it, I was riding him. After I got my rocks off, we switched to doggy style. While his cock didn’t mind the crack-of-dawn booty call, the spirit was weary.
“I don’t think I’m going to come,” he sighed as his speed slowed. That, to me, was unacceptable. It really bugs me when a man doesn't come. (How can I help but take it personally?) The humping stopped for a moment so we could both catch our breath, but I didn’t get the sense he wanted to quit…in fact, I was pretty sure I knew just what he wanted.
“Fuck me in the ass,” I said.
(Insert stunned, awkward silence on the back side of the bed.)
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
“I want you to come,” I said. “If that’s what it takes…”
I won’t be around the bush…err…make that the other “b” body part. It hurt. At first I didn’t even think his cock would fit inside me. But after a few deep breaths and some insistent thrusts, he got in…and got off.
“How was that for you?” he asked afterward.
I wasn’t going to lie. Anal isn’t exactly “fun” for me. I don’t like how it feels, especially when it hurts. It also makes me feel dirty, for obvious reasons. I’ve heard that some women can orgasm from it, but I’ve also heard all sorts of bullshit from women about how they’re capable of coming in positions that I think are anatomically impossible to hit the sweet spot.
I didn’t want to ruin my man’s postcoital bliss…so I broke it to him gently, telling him I felt about anal the way he felt about oral. Whenever I offered this guy a BJ, he’d say, “I’d rather be inside of you.” My sentiments exactly. As I said when we’d initially talked about my unwillingness to take it up the butt, “There are so many better places to put your cock.”
Still, I can understand why a man would be attracted to that area. It’s the same reason I have to be on top to come. It’s all about friction. Since this was the only thing on his wish-list, I obliged. (Far be it from me to prevent a man from fulfilling a fantasy.)
After his Johnson exited my back door, the guy went to get water. When he returned, he spanked me and said, “Now go to bed!”
Boy oh boy did I ever. I slept so hard I’m pretty sure I drooled all over his pillowcase. (Hey—the sheets needed to be washed anyway!)
The last time I brought this topic to light (err...I take it back. Leave the lights off!), I paired the anecdote with a recipe called "Fudge Packer Cupcakes".
I know it’s gross to associate dessert with anal sex, but if there’s anytime a girl needs comfort food, it’s after being sodomized. Just so y’all can stomach this recipe, I’ll keep the title kosher. Interpret as you will the fudgy base topped with a creamy, sweet concoction. Yes, they are messy. Come prepared! ;-)
As for songs, I really dig this one from Lovers, especially the chorus of What do you want, baby?/Let's do what turns you on/Don't You Want It?. I could listen to this tune over and over and over again…just like I could eat these brownies until I burst… As for anal? Um, not so much. Consider it a “special occasion only” event.
SODOMIZE ME BROWNIES
1 box brownie mix
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
1/3 cup sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 13 x 9 pan with cooking spray.
• Prepare brownie batter as directed on package; spread into pan.
• In large bowl, blend cream cheese with electric mixer until creamy. Add sugar, egg and vanilla; mix well. Drop by tablespoonfuls over brownie batter and swirl with knife.
• Bake 30 minutes; remove pan from oven momentarily and top with chocolate chips. Return to oven and bake 5-10 additional minutes or until cream cheese mixture is set.
• Remove pan from oven; cool brownies completely before cutting and serving. For best flavor, chill overnight. Keep leftovers stored in freezer.
• Eat only when you really, really want it. And just a taste at a time. These treats pack a lot of power in a seemingly harmless package...
Monday, January 3, 2011
Keanu Reeves, the star of the blockbuster film, became my overnight obsession. I saw the movie over a dozen times and memorized the entire script. Though others claimed Keanu was an atrocious actor, I sought out every inch of celluloid he appeared on, no matter how obscure the film or how minor the role. I scoured celebrity magazines and newspaper interviews in search of some bread crumb that would lead me to him. (This was in the days before Google, so I had to do the detective work myself.)
I was convinced Keanu was the man I was going to marry. To speed things along, I planned to relocate to Tinseltown, make a career as a maid, and adopt Keanu’s Norton-riding and surfing hobbies.
Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go all the way to the West Coast to find the movie star that made me see stars. That fall, Keanu came to the Twin Cities to film Feeling Minnesota.
The local gossip columnist reported all the Keanu sightings in the paper and I, in turn, followed the trail. My mother was more than supportive—she even let me skip school one day for the sole purpose of stalking Keanu.
Our first stop: The Loon Café downtown where Keanu was rumored to have eaten. We requested “his” booth.
“Which side did he sit on?” I asked the host, indicating the oak banquette.
He pointed to the side facing the door, and I wiggled into place, imagining the melding of Keanu’s ass with mine. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
After bowls of wild rice soup, Mom and I circled the streets of the warehouse district in her Oldsmobile, driving by the site of the Feeling Minnesota movie set over and over, craning our necks to get a glimpse of my crush. All we could see were orange cones and bright lights that white-washed the sidewalk. On foot, we did lap after lap around the block, hoping Keanu would appear for a cigarette break or lunchtime stroll. No such luck. The closest we came to Keanu was his body double, whom we mistakenly followed several blocks believing him to be the genuine article.
My Keanu crush got put on the back burner when I started dating men in 3-D. He didn't enter my mind much (especially after “The Matrix”—what the hell were you thinking, Keanu?!), until one evening about a year ago, my mother brought a surprise to dinner.
“I was feng-shui-ing,” she said. “And look what I found!”
She presented me with a 20 x 30 framed print from Speed.
“Oh, Mom,” I scoffed. “I’m not 13 anymore.”
“It’s a nice poster,” my mother said, winking at Keanu’s seriously sexy expression.
“It’s kind of intimidating; I wouldn’t want to scare a potential Prince Charming off,” I said.
“Keep it in the garage,” my father opined.
Now outnumbered, I ceded to the parental pressure and propped Keanu’s image above the bookshelf by the back door.
I gazed at Keanu’s photo. He was so handsome, it took my breath away, even after all those years.
Then I realized why: The Hollywood hunk bore an uncanny resemblance to another Canadian cutie: Puck.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Is it any wonder that, after eons of staring into Keanu’s chocolate brown eyes, imagining my hands grazing his shaved head, and admiring his rock-hard body, that I would fall obsessively in love with his real-life look-alike?
More mouthwatering connections between men and food in my next post...
BORN TO BE WILD RICE SOUP
1 teaspoon butter
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped carrots
½ cup chopped green onions
½ cup chopped onion
1 ½ teaspoons minced garlic
1 (14 ounce) can chicken broth
½ cup uncooked wild rice
2 tablespoons flour
1 ¼ cup milk
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon salt
• Melt butter in large soup pan over medium heat. Add celery, carrots, green onions, onion, and garlic. Saute 10 minutes, or until browned.
• Pour in broth; stir, making sure to scrape vegetables from side of pan with spoon.
• Add rice and bring to a boil.
• Cover, reduce heat, and simmer soup for 1 hour.
• In small bowl, whisk together flour and milk; pour into soup pan.
• Cook an additional 10 minutes, stirring frequently.
• Remove from heat; stir in salt and pepper. Allow 5-10 minutes for soup to thicken.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
*** 2010 ***
New lovers: Eight
Breakups: Five (Slump Buster x 3, Honey Buns, and New Dude)
Blow Jobs: Innumerable.
Orgasms: Somewhere in the triple digits.
Orgasms in a Single Sex Session: Twelve? (Last night. The Baconator. One for each year I didn't have a date on New Year's Eve!)
First Dates: Don't Ask.
Online Dating Services Tried: Five (Match, eHarmony, OK Cupid, Plenty Of Fish, MeetLocals)
Emails Received on Match.com: Unknown. I stopped responding after #200.
Men That Sent Me Cock Shots: Three (Playboy, New Dude, and Paul Bunyan)
Boyfriends (according to me): Four (Slump Buster,
Honey Buns, New Dude, The Baconator)
Boyfriends (according to them): One (New Dude)
Men who said "I Love You": One (New Dude)
Men I said "I Love You" to: Zero
Pregnancy Scares: One (Slump Buster)
Computer Viruses: Three
STDs: Zero, zilch, nada.
Items Lost at Lovers' Homes: Two (a rock at Slump Buster's and a bow-tie thong at Paul Bunyan's. Ahem, fellas. I'd like those back!)
Business Trips (which included some guilty pleasures): Two (Portland and Denver)
Award-Winning Poems Inspired By Slump Buster: One ("Untitled for L")
Published Poems Inspired By New Dude: One ("Words Caught Crossways in a Woman's Throat")
New Followers: 500 (Facebook) 90 (Foodbuzz) 50 (Networked Blogs)
Rock Star Guest Chef Interviews: Thirteen
Concerts Attended: 150 (approximate)
Most Frequently Ogled Band: Pictures of Then (Five concerts)
Containers of Parkers Farm Peanut Butter Consumed: 100 (approximate)
Hours spent exercising to burn off peanut butter belly: 848 (the equivalent of 35 days. Wow.)
Best Blog Subject: Slump Buster
Worst Blog Subject: Any who I dated and didn't bother to write about on this site!
Biggest Package: The Baconator
Best First Date: Paul Bunyan
Worst First Date: Coach
Best Male Lover: You didn’t really think I was going to answer that, did you?!
Worst Male Lover: Honey Buns
Best Female Lover: Duh. There was only one. And she was only good in the beginning.
Worst Female Lover: Ditto. Fingernail up the ass. 'Nuf said.
Best Cock Shot: Playboy
Worst Cock Shot: Only those I didn't receive!
Biggest Surprise: Meeting New Dude.
Biggest Disappointment: A tie between Slump Buster’s pseudo proposal and my broken foot.
Best Edible Gift: New Dude's Blueberry Pie
Worst Edible Gift: New Dude's Blueberry Bread
Saddest Goodbye: My poodle, Tito.
Most Popular Recipe (Savory): Happy Accident Pepperoni Bread
Least Popular Recipe (Savory): Gyros
Most Popular Recipe (Sweet) : Kiss of Death Rice Krispies Bars
Least Popular Recipe (Sweet): Disappointing Oat Balls
Most Popular Ingredient: Bananas (Gee, I wonder why...)
Least Popular Ingredient: Anchovies
Is that TMI? Good. If catching up on those juicy posts didn't satisfy you, there's plenty more if you click on the the Most Popular Posts tag.
As for 2011 missives? You'll just have to wait and see... :) 'Til then, my interpretation of 2010 can be summed up in one song. Happy New Year, dahlings!