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!
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.
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 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!
Monday, December 27, 2010
“I know this is changing the subject, but…what do you think of my new hat? And look! A matching scarf! But how do I tie this thing without looking stupid?” He whipped his new accessories around and I giggled goofily. Silliness aside, the Baconator was beyond hot…and it had nothing to do with the clothes. That bearded grin, his adorable dimple, those breathtaking blue eyes…sigh…
“God, you’re cute,” I said.
The Baconator waved off my compliment.
“Are these jeans too tight?” he asked.
“No,” I said, noticing the slighest rip in the left thigh. “They look great.”
“I liked ‘em ‘cause they were a little edgier than what I normally wear. But I’m not sure about the size…”
“Did you have to jump into them?” I asked.
“Hmm…well, that’s usually a sign…but don’t worry. They’re still not as tight as mine!”
And with that, our two cute asses went out to dinner. The Baconator had made reservations (with nary a nagging from me!) and he drove! (Have I mentioned how much I luvvv when a man, ahem, takes the wheel in a relationship?!) Appropriately, we went to Joe’s Garage in the very hip Loring Park neighborhood.
The waiter led us to a corner, candlelit table on the second floor and slipped us the specials. At the top of the list: Tater Tot Hot Dish. The Baconator didn’t even bother to glance at the regular menu. He knew what he wanted and saw no need to peruse any further. (Decisiveness. Another quality I luvvv in a man.)
I contemplated the comfort food selection, but nothing sounded good; that I wasn’t hungry was a cardinal sign that I was way more upset than I’d let on. I tried to hide behind my hair, but the tears filled my eyes and threatened to spill forth again. The Baconator wasn’t fooled; his gaze was so intense on me that I felt as translucent as a spring roll (That’s the best I could do for a food metaphor at the moment).
I settled on the virtuous SWG (strawberry, walnut, and gorgonzola) Salad with grilled chicken. We tried to talk around The Bad News until the food arrived. The Baconator let me steal several tater tots (OMG. Soooooo good. I would’ve liked a bucketful of that stuff!) and encouraged me to eat his mushrooms (one of his few food aversions).
“Dessert?” the waiter asked after we’d cleaned our plates.
I wanted chocolate cake, but as a tranquilizer only. In a rare moment of maturity, I said no.
“What I’d really like is a Jazz apple with peanut butter,” I confessed after the waiter left.
“We can go get an apple,” The Baconator said. “Remind me after The Walker.”
To tide me over until then, I unearthed a bag of “Snowman Soup” from my purse. The itty bitty gift bag was given to me by my neighbor; inside, it contained a packet of hot cocoa, a half-dozen mini marshmallows, a mini candy-cane, a chocolate kiss and a peppermint kiss. I popped the chocolate kiss in my mouth and offered the peppermint one to The Baconator.
“I’ve never tried these,” he said.
“Me, neither,” I said.
“Here, have half.”
I protested (albeit weakly so) and when he handed me the bitten-off hunk, I happily accepted. He also split the candy cane in two so we could share. (Aww, shucks! Is that sweet or what?!)
By the time we made it to the Walker Art Museum, there was only an hour left to explore before they closed. The Baconator and I instinctively drifted toward a photography exhibit about men who’ve committed “pseudoside” (my new favorite word). This was when guys abandoned conventional lives (and wives) and moved to a place called “Boy Mountain” to live off the grid.
“I could live there,” I said, pointing at a model tree house. “As long as I had wireless, I’d be happy.”
“I might enjoy it for a while,” The Baconator said. “But I’m too practical. I’d want to know where to find the water and the food.”
“True,” I said. “It would probably only be fun until I got hungry.”
Speak of the devil (read: my stomach), a “rumbly in my tumbly” (per Winnie the Pooh) began. After the museum guards kicked us out, The Baconator and I went to Kowalski’s for Jazz Apples. Just my (shitty) luck: the best stocked grocery store in the Twin Cities didn’t have my favorite kind of apples! The Baconator and I wandered around and around the aisles, looking for an appropriate substance to soothe me.
“Forget it,” I said. "I'm the lamest date ever. This is so bad, you should write a blog about it! Let’s just go back to your place."
“No!” he exclaimed. “You. Need. A. Treat.”
I couldn’t decide. Nothing enticed me. Not even apples and peanut butter anymore. All I wanted was to be flooded with pleasure, and fucking seemed like a faster way to go about that.
Instead, The Baconator led me to his version of heaven (a.k.a. the cheese aisle).
“See the puddles on the floor?” he said. (No, there weren’t any, but we were playing Let’s Pretend) “That’s from all the drool.”
We fondled some plastic-wrapped concoctions and gawked at the price tags, then returned to the produce section. I settled for a pair of Honeycrisps (“I’m gonna get the biggest fucking apple they have! And some lettuce!”) and, with the promise of homemade chocolate sauce awaiting on his countertop, we went back to The Baconator’s place. I ate most of the decadently drizzled apple slices, plus a heaping spoonful of chocolate sauce, then I decapitated a gingerbread man.
“Wow. These are still good!” I exclaimed. The gingerbread dudes had been in the fridge almost a week (Note: In most circumstances, I do not recommend keeping baked goods in the fridge. It’s either room temp for right now or freeze for later.) “They’re so soft!”
I told The Baconator about a study that showed that people’s personalities dictate which part of a gingerbread man they eat first. Headstrong people start up top (ahem, me); sensitive people start with the arms. As for those who eat the legs (or other areas)…um, I can’t remember. Oh well.
The Baconator made me a cup of loose leaf tea (another first). I was impressed that not only did he have all the equipment, he knew how to use it! (Yes, this is so rare it deserves an exclamation point.) Alas, I never got more than a tongue-scorching sip, because my honey soon moved onto another mood-brightening tactic too X-rated for my now squeaky clean reputation. Let's just say that when constructing my future dream kitchen, I will make sure the contractors measure the countertops for proper whoopie-making height.
The Baconator and I moved into the bedroom and by the time we were done, I’d forgotten than there was anything else happening in the world beyond him and me, naked limbs intertwined, the flutter of breath and the rhythms of heartbeats between us. (Was that too gooey? Can’t help myself.) I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn't fall asleep, either. If I was going to break my "no sleepovers" rule, I wanted to do so over the holiday weekend when we could bask in bed the morning after rather than rush off to our respective insane schedules.
"Are you sleepy?" The Baconator asked.
"Not really," I said.
"When I can't sleep, I go through my day in my mind from beginning to end," he said. "Then I realize how much I did and it makes me tired."
The Baconator began rehashing--not from the morning, but from the time I'd walked through the door. He enumerated every little detail of the date--even things I'd forgotten about...like how many tater tots I'd robbed.
"Sleepy now?" he asked when he finished.
"Yeah," I said. "So I should go."
Before I left, The Baconator retrieved a plastic baggie from his fridge. I’d recently experimented with a new Chex mix recipe, and The Baconator was my guinea pig. Judging by the crumbs, this was a winning combo.
“Refill this for next time,” he said.
It seemed like the least I could do, considering how well he’d filled me up. (Heh heh.)
The Baconator walked me to my car, which was now covered with a good two inches of snow. Of course he cleaned it off for me. (Quality #3 I luvvvv in a man: chivalry!) I revved the car and though it required many ins and outs, finally I was off. (Oh, the pun possibilities!)
Sleepy, snowy, midnight bliss…plus an excuse to make Chexxxstasy. What more could Man Eater ask for? :)
3/4 cup brown sugar
6 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon baking soda
8 cups Chocolate Chex cereal (I’ve only found this flavor at Kowalski’s, so you might have to search for it)
¼ cup chocolate chips
• Line cookie sheet with waxed paper. Set aside.
• In large microwaveable bowl, combine brown sugar, butter, and corn syrup. Microwave on high 1 ½ minutes; stir. Microwave additional 30 seconds if necessary and stir again.
• Stir in baking soda until dissolved. Add cereal and stir until evenly coated.
• Microwave additional 2-3 minutes, stirring every minute. Spread coated cereal on wax paper and let cool for 10 minutes.
• Put chocolate chips in separate, small bowl, and microwave at 30 seconds intervals until melted. Drizzle over cereal. Let set, then break into hunks, transfer to plastic baggies or Tupperware, and store in fridge.
• To make sure your recipient actually gets his share of Chexxxstasy, do not prepare too long before your date or you’re bound to down it all!
• P.S. Your love is better than chocolate.
Because we’re OD’ing on sweetness tonight, let’s add a sappy song to our super sugary recipe!
Friday, December 24, 2010
Santa came early this year. And ho-ho-ho, he brought me a ginormous package. Meaning: The Baconator's. But that’s not why I dig him so much. As he said the other night, “Sex should be the perk of the relationship.” And it is. What I love about The Baconator is that his heart is as big as that *other* part of his anatomy (I’m trying to polite. It’s the Lord’s day after all.) The Baconator keeps in touch everyday. He cooks for me. He makes me laugh with tickling attacks. He gives me thoughtful gifts, like Jazz apples, Dove Promises and windshield scrapers (you’d have to live in MN to truly appreciate that last one). He always asks that I let him know when I get home safe at night.
What’s transpired over the past two weeks hasn’t been a crazy this-is-happening-so-fast-I-can’t-breathe affair. It’s a steadily building bonfire of attraction. It feels natural. And safe. And 100% drama-free. Sometimes we go out. Sometimes we stay in. We eat fantastic food, we talk a lot, we fuck like rabbits. Does that sound simple? It is. But with The Baconator, simple is not the least bit boring.
I know I’m in a healthy relationship when everything else in my life just falls into place. I sleep better, I eat better, I take care of business better and I have more energy than ever. A good partner should bring out the best version of yourself. The Baconator has done that for me.
This is where my BIG NEWS was supposed to go. Because what I wanted to share with you all is in limbo, let’s just say that an opportunity arose (and no, it wasn’t sex-related) and I jumped on it (No pun intended...though jumping on beds never fails to make me giddy).
This new endeavor would require an incredible amount of work. I was looking forward to it. I like being busy (in addition to getting busy).
The Baconator was the first person I told about the big news and last week, over one of our co-created kick-ass recipes, he and I discussed the future of the Man Eater blog. To my surprise, The Baconator was the one advocating for me continuing to write. I was the one enumerating the reasons to stop.
“What you write about might have to change, but you shouldn’t stop. The blog is what keeps you going," The Baconator insisted between bites of what we dubbed Stir-Fry-Or-Something-Like-It.
"True..." I said. "But aren’t you afraid I’ll write about you?"
"I don't mind if you do."
“Everybody says that in the beginning,” I sighed.
“And then they turn into jerks, right? I already told you: I’m going to be different.”
Dare I say I believed him? If everything else that’s transpired thus far (great sex, creative dates, unconditional acceptance, little gestures that make me melt), then this was going to be different from anything I’d ever experienced before. And because I wanted it to be different, I decided the blog would have to end. For once, keeping our most intimate moments private was more important to me than entertaining my readers.
Everything was on the upschwing (err…I mean "upswing") as I mentally prepared myself to wrap up this blog by the end of the year. Then, last night, as I was leaving for my Christmas Eve Eve date with The Baconator, that fateful phone call came and my world came crashing down.
At first I thought, Guh-reat timing! Now I’m going to show up on my date and start bawling! (Which is not conducive to balling, natch.) Then I arrived at The Baconator’s, where, enveloped in his embrace, I felt completely comfortable letting go. I cried. And as I did, he held me tighter and reassured me that everything happens for a reason. I realized there was no better time to have received bad news than right before getting together with The Baconator.
Within minutes, The Baconator had me giggling through the tears. Afterwards, he took me out for what can only be described as a foodie’s dream date. (The deets are in my next post.) At the end of the evening as we cuddled naked in bed, he said, “What are you thinking?”
I nuzzled my face into his fuzzy cheek and said, "That I really, really like you."
Understatement of the century. Confession: I’ve fallen. And I don’t want to get up. I’m very happy prostrate, head over heels. I couldn’t ask for anything more from Santa than this.
Want to know what I’m giving The Baconator for Christmas? Can you keep a secret? (Just kidding, I already let it slip.) It’s something I haven’t given any man in years: a sleepover...plus breakfast. (The few sleepovers I've had this year were hump-and-runs. No lingering in bed the morning after.) There’s just one condition that must be met beforehand…which we have yet to discuss… (Cue "Honey? We need to talk...")
As for the future of this blog…I don’t know what to tell you, dear addicted readers of mine. I have a few straggler posts and plenty of oldies-but-goodies to keep you entertained until Man Eater calls it quits...and Erica Rivera embarks on a whole new chapter...
As for eats, Santa deserves something spectacular for giving me such a big package this year. What better edible metaphor than a big hole (err...I mean "wreath")? Made from Rice Krispies treats, this dessert is hassle-free, super sweet, and topped with red hots for a spicy bite. And yes, you still have time to make one before Old Saint Nick slides down your chimney (heh heh) tonight!
Wishing you all a very sexxxy xmas!
MERRY XXXMAS WREATH
3 tablespoons butter
4 cups mini marshmallows
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal
1 can green icing
¼ cup red hots
• Melt butter and marshmallows in microwaveable bowl for 1 minute (or heat in saucepan over low heat on stove until melted).
• Stir in Rice Krispies cereal. Coat evenly with marshmallow mix.
• Immediately shape Rice Krispies into wreath shape on waxed paper. Let cool, then freeze until firm.
• About an hour before serving, remove wreath from fridge and decorate with icing and red hots.
• Serve, then unwrap his package before the sugar puts him to sleep!
Monday, December 20, 2010
“Are you sure?”
“I must be thinking of somebody else. I guess I might’ve told this story last night, too.”
I laughed because this guy (who I’ll call Rocky, as that’s his movie hero and he used to be a boxer), was way too much like me, a fact I found simultaneously intriguing and frightening.
“I forget who I tell what,” Rocky said with a shrug. “I’m just being honest.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
The How-I-Met-My-Ex-Wife story, Cliff’s notes style: Rocky went to a nudist resort in Jamaica. He witnessed all sorts of freaky things. He met two cheesehead chicks who claimed to know the perfect girl for him…if only he didn’t live so far away from her (she lived in MN; he on the East coast).
Months later, the perfect girl got a job only miles from where Rocky lived. Boy met girl, they fell in love, and at the end of the summer, he proposed because he couldn’t imagine life without her.
Aww. Now that’s the kind of fast-paced, impulsive romance I’m looking for! (Without the divorce ten years down the line, of course.)
Appearance-wise, Rocky looked like a cross between Brad Pitt and Stanley Tucci. (If you don’t think Tucci is sexy, watch Julie and Julia and you will see why I say he is.) Unlike Tucci, however, Rocky was tall. At least 6’3”. He had incredible fashion sense, was deliciously fit, and had just joined a rock band. Basically, he was a 20-year-old in a 37-year-old’s body. Within ten minutes I knew that this guy would be a fabulous fuck, but relationship material? No way, Jose.
Rocky was a repeat offender; meaning, he’d hit on me during my first bout on Match (waaaaay back in February 2009!) and again last month when I rejoined…without realizing I was the same person. I knew who he was right away, as he hadn’t changed his profile picture or screen name. (Because as we know, men never change!) I reminded Rocky of our prior online acquaintance and he reminded me of our flirtation surrounding our mutually favorite movie.
HIM: Want to know charming? The whole part in Rocky when he has the old school tank on and he gives a little Rocky love to Adrian in the corner by the door on the floor... so smooth that Balboa character :)
ME: Somehow I read "old school tank" in your email to mean "fish tank". No wonder I was confused! (Rocky liked turtles, not fish...right?) At least we were referencing the same thing--his
undergarments. Ha ha.
HIM: turtles...yes...cuff and link :) old school tank = wife beater :) I guess I am rather new school when it comes to undergarments.... regular t-shirts and boxer briefs. I have a feeling that Rocky didn't have a single one of those in that wardrobe of his!
Hell-oh-oh-oh! We were discussing briefs before we'd even met. This guy was right up my alley (or at least, I wanted him to be, ASAP!) But we never got together. I don’t recall what the tipping point was that caused me to write Rocky off. Reviewing my email archives, it looks like there was a failed attempt at him calling me and my refusal to try again. I told Rocky so now.
“You probably met someone,” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “There was absolutely no action going on at that time.”
Whatever the reason Rocky and I didn’t connect way-back-when, I didn’t care. Rocky didn’t, either.
There’s no better time to enjoy a surprise package than the present!
I asked Rocky why he’d rejoined Match. He said he’d been dating a ballerina (whose hotness he mentioned multiple times) who toured too much for a relationship. I asked Rocky what his online dating experience had been like thus far.
“Match is like a part-time job,” he sighed. “All those emails. It takes forever!”
Uh-oh, I thought. Do I really want to date someone as popular as me?
“But I like that about Minneapolis,” Rocky continued. “I could have a date every night of the week if I wanted to.”
I nodded without saying a word, but my knee-jerk reaction was: Run. Away. Fast.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I think you’re a player,” I said.
You could’ve heard a pin—or a jaw—drop after that comment.
“Ooops,” I said. “Am I going to regret saying that? Did I put you on the spot?”
“Not at all,” Rocky replied, shifting his shoulders back like an attorney preparing his defense...or a prize-fighter readying for a right hook. “Do I date a lot? Yes. I’m looking for a partner. That’s how you find one. I’m doing exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do you like dating?”
“I like the company.”
“Do you miss being married?”
“I miss being married, yes. Married to her? No.”
Rocky told me how heartbroken he was post-divorce.
“I went through the rampage stage,” he said.
“Ahh, yes,” I said. “The cock rampage.”
Rocky chuckled. “Exactly. Then I went through my saint phase.”
“Then I went through the I’m only having long term relationships phase.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.
“It takes so fucking long to get anywhere!”
“I know. That’s why you have to have other people in between the genuine prospects.”
And that’s where I’d slotted Rocky: as an in-between-boyfriends beau.
As though on cue, Rocky slid up behind me on the banquette. He rubbed my shoulders, working his way down to my thighs. I tilted my head back and leaned into him, closing my eyes, expecting him to slip me the tongue…but he didn’t, and by the time I had opened my eyes, I realized I was nuzzling my cheek against his temple instead. His lips were nowhere near mine. It was weird. Finally, he kissed me…but he didn’t just kiss me; he sort of lapped at my face like a dog. His mouth—and mine—had been eclipsed by his huge tongue.
Rocky pulled back after a few laps (natch).
“What?” I asked. “You don’t want to?”
“I want to,” he said. “But I don’t know how the restaurant management feels about it. Or those guys.”
Rocky nodded at a table across from us where a few middle-aged men and a teenage boy were dining.
“So where are we going?” he asked.
“Nowhere,” I said.
Rocky smile drooped. He hadn’t had sex in a looong time (meaning, in male measurement: a month) and I was pretty sure he wanted me to be his slump buster.
I’d gotten plowed (and I ain’t talkin’ snow) the night before. I was still (OMG, am I actually going to say this? Yes, yes I am) bleeding a little bit from all the bumping and grinding. (Guys really like to go long the first time. And considering how long he was, I didn’t mind. Not one inch…err, I mean, “bit”.)
Rocky didn’t bother to ask me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid. I wish he would have…just so I could’ve motioned at his pricey watch and said, “In hours?”
“Just because we go to my place doesn’t mean we have to have sex,” he said.
I laughed skeptically.
“Yeah, sure. Have you ever had a woman over to your house and not had sex?”
“Absolutely. A few times, in fact.”
“Well, if I go to your place, I know exactly what’s going to happen,” I said.
How did I know? Because this date was playing out just like 99% of the others I’ve had lately: Boy meets Man Eater. Boy lures Man Eater to bachelor pad. Man Eater drops pants. Boy assigns Man Eater "booty call girl" title. Boy never takes Man Eater on a real date again.
“Listen,” Rocky said, switching into first-date-sex salesman mode. “I definitely want to go out on another date…but I can tell you right now that it might not happen until January.”
“I’ll be off the market by then,” I said.
“When was your last date?” he asked.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Hmm. Well, I won’t sweat it,” he said. “If the timing’s not right, so be it. I’m not going to force anything.”
Rocky paid for my salad, his fish, and our shared platter of waffle fries (“They charge for that little cup of seasoned sour cream?!” he gaped) and we headed toward the restrooms.
“Oh my God! Chris Koza just emailed me!” Rocky exclaimed when he emerged from the W.C. (Apparently, I’m not the only one who checks email on the John!) “Have you heard of his band Rogue Valley?"
"Of course I have. I interviewed them for my blog."
Rocky wasn't aware. Thus far, he'd stayed away from this site.
"You really should read it," I said. "Just so you know what you're getting into before next time."
Rocky waved off the suggestion like there wasn't anything I could possibly write that would shock him.
(Uh-huh. Yeah, right.)
"Do you mind if I reply to Koza?" Rocky asked. "Should I tell him I’m on a date with the Man Eater?”
“Yes! Yes! Do it!” I said.
"Will he remember who you are?"
"The band made breakfast for me." (Which is more than I can say for most of the men I've slept with!)
"Koza knows who I am."
Rocky tapped out the message right there in front of me. (Chris was responding to a thank-you note from Rocky for some charity work he'd done.) The moment was sort of sweet…like Rocky was kissing my big brother’s ass so he could go feel me up in the car, guilt free. Which is precisely what we did. We made out like 14-year-old virgins. Meaning: sloppily. Cars are not great make-out spaces. Especially with all the winter gear getting in the way.
Not that it prevented much. Before I knew it, we were in motion. Rocky did naughty things with one hand and steered like a perfect gentleman with the other, all the way through the slushy streets of Eagan.
“Stop,” I said as we drove past the apartment where EconMan proposed five years ago (almost to the date, in fact). “That feels really good but if you keep going, we’re going to end up at your place. And that’s not okay with me.”
Though we were in spitting distance to my house, the return trip felt long. Verrrrry long. And awkward.
“So. How many other dates do you have lined up for this week?” I asked.
“One. It’s Friday or Saturday. I can’t remember.”
The thought of Rocky going out with someone else after expressing so much interest in me was unnerving. I couldn’t hide my discomfort.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” Rocky said sassily.
“Yes, I’m learning that,” I replied.
Rocky pulled up into my driveway. We kissed goodbye. He said he’d check in with me about his schedule so we could get together again.
I’ll save you the suspense. He didn’t call. Or email. Surprise, surprise. Have I said “Trust your gut” already? Of course I have. Because you should. When things don’t work out the first time around, readers, don’t bother with second chances. Not even if a year-and-a-half has passed and he’s way sexier than you imagined. Unless you like torturing yourself or having regrettable sexual experiences.
Two days post-date, Rocky texted me to see how my date went (umm…awkward!). By then, I wasn’t interested in a man who could...um, give me the finger (literally), then give me the finger (figuratively speaking) by not contacting me for 48 hours. (Proper etiquette, fellas, is to touch base the morning after touching any part of a woman’s anatomy!) Forgive me, but I just assumed that single Dads would treat their lovers as they would like their daughters to be treated. (No worries, fellas; karma will come around soon enough. Some guy will knock up your daughter and you'll be a grandpa in no time!)
Rejection stings no matter where it comes from, but I comforted myself with the fact that if a foreplay-with-no-follow-up left me feeling that resentful, thank goodness I didn't let Rocky rock my world!
Ahh, but that's all in the past. I'm scraping the bottom of the bad date stories barrel. Blame The Baconator. He's treating me so well, I'm running out of material! That’s good for me but not so entertaining for you. Or are you interested in sharing my bliss?
If so, we’ll tackle that in a future post. For now, a tidbit of advice: Keep the Rocky Roads in your mouth and the Rockys out of your pants. You'll thank me in the morning.
2 cups chocolate chips
1 cup peanut butter
4 cups miniature marshmallows
* Line 9 x 9 pan with parchment paper.
* Heat chocolate chips and peanut butter over low heat in a medium saucepan, stirring often, until chips are completely melted.
* Remove pan from heat. Stir in marshmallows.
* Transfer mixture into prepared pan. Let cool. Refrigerate until firm, then cut.
* A tip from the newly matured Man Eater: be mindful about what you put in your body. Don't go overboard or you'll regret it when the high wears off.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Pop quiz #1: HukPhun.
A couple weeks ago, I finally met the Match man who I’d rejected over a year ago, blogged about, got chewed out about, and then asked out by again. For our first date, I suggested the restaurant where I was once hired to be a server. I sent an email to my former boss giving him a heads up that I’d be coming down with a date.
“Please do whatever you can to make the evening extra uncomfortable,” I told him.
Apparently, he didn’t know I was joking. Or he did and he wanted to give me a hard time (since he’s married, it’s the only hard thing he can give me, LOL). Within minutes of hugging HukPhun hello, my boss appeared and slid into the booth next to me.
“Sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mr. Elusive,” I scoffed.
The conversation was purely professional, but my boss was so physically close to me, I wondered if HukPhun got a tad envious. (And if he did, good. Men should know that other men find me find attractive. It keeps them on their toes.)
After my boss went about his merry way, I asked HukPhun where he lived, as he’d mentioned moving in a previous exchange. HukPhun named his hometown. I won’t say where (to protect his privacy) but it’s no where near the Twin Cities.
“What?” I gaped. “I thought you said you weren’t a cheesehead!”
“I’m not interested in football," he said, "But I do live in Wisconsin. I thought you knew that.”
Sometimes men I’ve met online think I forget such information listed on their profiles. The truth is that I never read it in the first place…because 99% of the time, it’s shtick. My bullshit meter is much more effective in person. But once I have a man in front of me, you better believe my radar is set to ultra-sensitive…and I will remember every tidbit of pertinent information.
“Are you in town on business then?” I asked.
“Wait wait wait wait. You came all the way here just to meet me?”
“Why does that surprise you? You’re an exceptional woman.”
Yes, but, I’d also learned my lesson from the Paul Bunyan debacle and was resolved not to make the sex-on-the-first-date mistake again.
“I wish I’d known,” I said. “I would’ve told you not to bother.”
“You’re worth it,” he said.
That’s not what I meant. I know I’m worth way more than I get most of the time. What I meant was: if I’d driven 2 ½ hours, no matter what number the date, I would’ve expected to get laid. And if that’s what HukPhun was expecting, he was going to be disappointed.
We dropped the driving topic long enough to order some ridiculously delicious cheese curds, a buffalo burger (for me) and a shrimp diablo pasta dish (for him).
Halfway through the entrees, our small talk meandered over to the topic of marriage. HukPhun’s opinion on matrimony?
“Marriage is friendship with benefits.”
Conversation came to a screeching halt. My cheese curd dangled frozen in mid-air.
“Um…”I said. “I don’t know if I agree with you on that. If you need a best friend, go get one. Your partner serves a different purpose.”
“Hence the benefits.”
“Something about that doesn’t fit for me,” I said. “I’m going to have to think about that.”
Isn’t the “benefit” part of friends with benefits that you can ask them to leave (or even better, that they do so of their own accord) after sex without anyone taking it personally? Isn’t the point of a marriage that nobody leaves anybody? And what about when children are involved (as was the case with both of us)?
“Marriage is just paperwork,” HukPhun said, digging the hole deeper and deeper. “And I do not want to get married ever again.”
My jaw might’ve dropped. Just a little bit. This guy was, physically, everything I was looking for (tall, dark, handsome and huge!). He’d also pursued me…hard. (Persistence is really sexy.) Now, he’d driven from out of state just to eat with me! (This was quite the change from people like Good Guy who wouldn’t even drive across town to pick me up.) I was incredibly flattered.
But HukPhun’s shitty opinion of marriage did not mesh with my long-term plans.
“If I met someone, we could do the whole commitment ceremony and have a party if she wanted,” HukPhun said. “But no paperwork.”
“I think either partner should be free to go at any time. Making it legal just complicates things.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Love ebbs and flows. Knowing how horrific divorce is and how long the process takes to end it will keep the couple together long enough to figure things out.”
HukPhun didn’t agree. His attractiveness instantly dropped to non-existent.
Once the plates had been cleared, HukPhun came over to my side of the table. He was showing me cell phone pix of his kids when a text message popped up at the top of the screen.
Is she hot? it read.
HukPhun’s face turned as red as the Heinz ketchup bottle.
“Oh...um...that’s just my buddy. I told him I was meeting you tonight,” he gushed, slinking back to his side of the booth.
I don’t know why the text shocked me so, but it did. I started to get that icky prostitute feeling.
“I’m just going to go freshen up,” I said.
I gave myself a silent pep-talk in the bathroom. My plan was to return to the table and end the date. On the way back, however, I noticed a cozy little section of the restaurant with a widescreen TV, a fireplace, and a leather couch. When I pointed it out to HukPhun, he suggested we hang for a bit. Considering how far he’d come, and that we’d been sitting in the same booth for over two hours, I agreed…
..and instantly regretted it.
HukPhun put his hand on my thigh. I must admit, it felt good. He had big hands. Strong hands. Hands that could completely contain my ass while I was riding what had to be a ginormous cock...
Wait right there! my smarter alter-ego screamed inside my head. Remember your intentions, Erica! If the goal is marriage, you do not fuck someone—especially on the first date—just to “see what it would be like”. It might feel good, but it’s bad. It’s telling the Universe that you’re not really ready to remarry.
I thought about the driving distance, which HukPhun swore would not deter him from seeing me. This was a major roadblock (pun very much intended) en route to an LTR. Quite frankly, I am an attention whore. I like to have my man close by in case a sudden craving arrives. Besides, that amount of distance would really put the pressure on...and not in a good way. If I drove 2 ½ hours to meet someone (which I never would, BTW. One hour in the car is as much as I can handle at a time), I’d expect a lot of bells and whistles upon my arrival. I’d want a parade to march through the bedroom post-coitus.
“What are you thinking?” HukPhun asked. (Contrary to urban myth, men ask this question way more than women. It’s like they want you to grade them every half-hour of the date!)
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just processing.”
I repeated the warning signs in an attempt to turn myself off: HukPhun had a history of rule-breaking. There was the ever-popular bipolar ex. (Men love the crazies. Luuuuuuv them.) And despite his masculine physique, there was something, um, effeminate about him.
I slunk down into the cushions and sighed. No, this was not going to work. My brain knew it. My body? Still unconvinced. HukPhun’s eyes were doing that horny man twinkling thing. I could tell he wanted to kiss me. The familiar sensation of butterflies swarmed my stomach.
"I can get a room,” HukPhun said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t do that,” I replied. “’Cause I’m not going there with you.”
“Why not? I know how to stop.”
“Yeah, but when I start something, I like to finish.”
“I don’t have any expectations, Erica.”
“I know you must have fantasies.”
“Okay, there is one thing I want.”
“I knew it.”
“A second date.”
“That I can do,” I said. “But for now, I need to call it a night.”
Someone whooped behind us. I got up on my knees and leaned over the back of the couch. A group of inebriated 20-somethings were testing out the mechanical bull—and my ex-boss was behind the control panel, plotting every buck and twist. Was I really going to forgo an awesome fuck to keep my promise to the Universe?
“Would you walk me to my car?” I asked.
HukPhun obliged. Then he asked me for a ride...to his car. I hesitated, knowing the kind of intimacy cars encourage. But, again, despite my better judgment, I agreed.
“Is this one yours?” I asked, pointing at a white pick-up.
“Yeah, I think that’s it.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Gimme a break! I just stole it today!”
“Ah-ha, so that’s where the ‘hitchhiker’ came from?” I said.
(At the start of our date, HukPhun confessed to giving some stranger a ride to the Mall of America. In under an hour, the two guys bonded over their exes. The hitchhiker provided endless opportunity for mockery.)
“Is there a dead body you need to dispose of in there?” I asked.
“Now there is.”
I started laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. It felt incredible. I thought maybe, just maybe, HukPhun might be something more than another “I wanna fuck Man Eater” fan.
HukPhun was waiting for me to change my mind. I could smell his desire polluting the air like exhaust seeping in through the window. I felt bad that he’d driven. I felt like I owed him something in return. I was thisclose to making the fun but stupid decision of getting a room.
Then I reminded myself that my company should be enough. I deserve to be wooed. I deserve to be spoiled. I deserve to respect myself in the morning. I would not change my position just to get laid. (Natch.)
Sleeping with HukPhun, no matter how much fucking fun it would be, would not change his opinion on marriage. And I knew how unlikely it was that a hook-up would turn into a satisfying relationship. To sleep with him just because the opportunity was there would be (gasp—I can’t believe I’m going to say this) wrong. It would be using him for his body…and it would be abusing mine.
(Pat me on the back, people. This is growth.)
I could tell HukPhun wanted to kiss me. I didn’t make the move—or invite him to—and he read my cues correctly. He gave me a peck on the cheek instead and opened his door.
“Since my phone’s dead,” he said, “You can just give me your number on Facebook.”
I agreed, though I didn’t have any plans to do so. By the time I got home (a 15 minute drive, which made me feel supremely guilty in comparison to HukPhun’s ride home), HukPhun had already emailed me asking for my thoughts. (Tip for the fellas: follow-up is essential...just wait until the next day to do it, okay? Women only like pressure in the bedroom!)
“I need to sleep on it,” I said.
The truth was, though I’d enjoyed HukPhun’s company, I felt incredibly empty. It sucked coming home unfucked. Normally I’d never pass up a chance to get naked with such a hottie (I’m like a man in that way), but I recognized this for what it was: the Universe asking if I was serious about finding a mate. I’d passed the test. And yet, the pride of keeping my pants on paled in comparison to the pleasure of fucking my brains out.
The next morning, I composed a message to HukPhun. The new (and utterly asinine) Facebook deleted all our message exchanges, so I can’t take the easy way out and just copy and paste. My reply went a little something like this:
ME: I’ve been dating long enough now that I know I need to trust my instincts. If all I wanted was to get laid, I would’ve jumped (literally!) at the hotel suggestion. But I’m trying to keep my actions in line with my intentions. Marriage is really important to me but it sounds like we’re not on the same page with that. I’ve wasted enough time and energy on men who I hoped would come around and realize how fantastic I was and put a ring on it. You said you weren’t interested in that, so I don’t see how our dating would be healthy for either of us. Have I scared you off yet?
Apparently not. HukPhun wouldn’t let me get away that easy. Now that I was clearly uninterested, he continued to pursue me. Message after message arrived. He posted poetry on my fb page. He tried to retract his no-more-marriage statement, telling me that he didn’t know me well enough when he blurted that out, and that for someone like me he could easily see himself changing his mind…
Uh-huh. Where have I heard that before? (Easy. Econman.)
HukPhun pushed and pushed and pushed. I thought I’d made a firm decision about not proceeding to date #2, but ultimately, the "free food + starving artist = ‘nuf said" equation decided for me and I agreed to a second date a week hence.
Me: OK, OK. Let’s do another din din. Get a room. That’s not a guarantee about what’s going to happen if/when we go there, but if something were to occur, I wouldn’t want you driving home afterwards. I WILL wear you out.
I wasn’t really looking forward to the date, but I wasn’t dreading it either. Luckily for me, fate intervened. As we know, a lot can happen in a Man Eater’s world in seven days. And it did. I went out with someone else (actually, I went out with a couple people, but I stayed in with only one of them). We made bacon. Literally. Afterwards, we made out on the couch. Before the clothes came off, he pulled back to check the time. I was supposed to rush off to an impromptu concert by my Pictures of Then peeps.
“Do you want to go?” he asked.
Absolutely…not. I wanted to come. And boy oh boy, did I ever. The evening was indescribably yummy. And I was happy.
But I still had the unfinished HukPhun business to deal with. A worse woman would’ve gone out with HukPhun anyway, just for the meal ticket. But no amount of grub, no matter how good (not even truffle mac n’ cheese as we’d discussed) would compensate for me having to fake it through a dinner when I’d rather be elsewhere. So I canceled. And went out with The Baconator for pizza instead. And, yes, you know what comes next. (Me. Innumerable times.)
The moral: Trust your gut. Especially when it’s asking for hot and spicy cheese curds.
THREE ALARM CHEESE CURDS
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup milk
1 quart oil
1 pound hot & spicy cheese curds (psst…you may have to order them ‘em online)
• In medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. Add eggs and milk; stir until combined.
• Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat.
• Dip cheese curds in batter, then drop into skillet. Fry 1 minute or until golden brown. Remove with spatula and drain on paper towels.
• Serve with Chipotle Mayo (recipe below).
SPICY CHIPOTLE MAYO
½ cup fat free mayo
¼ cup fat-free sour cream
2 Chipotle chilies (from can of Chipotle chilies in adobo sauce)
¼ teaspoon dried oregano leaves
• Combine mayonnaise and sour cream in medium bowl; stir and set aside.
• Remove 2 chilies from tin and chop finely, allowing some adobo sauce to cling to chilies.
• Add chilies to mayo and sour cream mixture; stir.
• Add oregano leaves; stir.
• Serve with cheese curds.
• Any sensation still left in your tongue? You know what to do with it. Just make sure to stop before you get stuffed.