It was dark, bitter cold. I was driving home from George Mason last night. I had the car that has the cd player. I had remembered to bring some music with me. I put in an album that I haven’t listened to in some time. It was an album that has some memorable associations, and as I considered the associated memory, I began to muse about myself and certain bedroom activities.
A long, long time ago, there were several separate occasions where food or various food substances were included in some of my amorous experimentations. I won’t go into details beyond mentioning certain items as examples: strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, edible body paint, edible underwear, etc. Last night, while I was driving, I considered the edibles. I thought back to the memories of the actions involving them, the people involved–but mostly myself. I realized that for me, bringing food into love-play makes me more concerned about the mess than actually turned on. I had no desire to paint my lover’s body, nor to lick anything off of it. I found that when I was on the receiving end of the “painting,” it was all I could do to hold my laughter in. The whole act of it is ridiculous, really. I mean, it sounds romantic when you read it in a book or short story, but when it comes down to squirting each other with whipped cream or eating a strawberry out of someone’s belly button, it is just not sexy. At least not to me. Give me soft lips and hard breath and light caresses and that plain old raw desire any day.
I guess I’ve grown past the need to experiment with things that I’m told are supposed to be turn-ons. I’m at the point in my life where I know what I like and my lover meets those needs. I am lucky enough to have found a match that way. We agree pretty well when it comes to bedroom matters. And now, I don’t have to hold back the chuckles when I remember the strawberries and whipped cream. And it feels good to laugh. Because really, so much that happens in bed is just so damn funny anyway.