One of my favorite things to write in this week’s Mercury Food Issue was the foodie sex code. The premise is that you can learn about how a person will be between the sheets based on the restaurant they choose in various situations. It’s a complete load of bullshit, of course (or is it?), but it’s an entertaining intellectual exercise non-the-less.
Try it out for yourself. Next time you’re out to eat with a friend or a lover, look around you, take a gander at the menu, and ask yourself, “What would it be like if all of this were translated into a sexual experience?”
Lets say, for example, you’re eating at the Montage around 3 am. The Foodie Sex Code would go something like this:
She suggests: A late night plate of Green Eggs and Spam at the Montage
In bed: The sex may be a little loud and a little rough, but what other kind of booty call are you going to scare up at this time of night? Besides when you’re as loaded as you both surely are, anything is going to be pleasant. After all, sometimes lowering your standards (and your inhibitions) will lead you into realms of pleasure you didn’t know you were actually into. Just mind those bruises in the morning.
…Or something like that.
Why not give it a try in the comments below, Blogtownies? I’d love to read what you come up with.
He suggests: food cart alley
In bed: he’s hairy and smells kind of bad. He gropes around a lot with his klutzy hands, has a hard time getting it up, and when he finally does, he cums before he gets it in. Then he rolls over onto his back and snores loudly.
Hey, what do you expect from a trailer? A five course gourmet meal?
Why is it hip to dis on Montage these days? is the place no longer cool? Still the best meal you can get for roughly ~$10 in the city.
She suggests: Delta Cafe
In bed: You immediately notice that once she strips off the wool skirt and leggings with matching argyle sweater that she’s a little more well-fed than first advertised, but that’s okay because girls with a little meat on their bones are more likely to stick around longer. The thong is a little bit of a surprise, as is the tramp stamp that looks like a corporate logo from the mid-nineties that you can’t quite place. You’re distracted by it as you enter her from behind, but thankfully her apartment on SE 28th and Gladstone faces east and the July twilight is quickly fading. She’s shy at first, and you wonder how much PBR she had, but then out of nowhere she lunges her hand toward her own delta and what begins as a slight moan turns quickly into a rhythmic and pleasured half-scream as she arches her back like a cat. Her orgasm arrives two minutes early but like a kind #75 bus driver she waits as you cross the street through traffic and get on board. You both collapse onto the converted futon and fall asleep after some surprisingly tender kisses. The next morning, you’re awakened by her roommates because two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center. You all sit in front of the television as falling buildings numb your hangover. It seems like the entire world is going under, and the only life raft you have to hold on to is what you originally thought was a one-night-stand but now has turned into something much deeper and harder to explain. As tower two collapses, it’s as if Dan Rather is talking to you through the television: The familiar “And that’s part of our world tonight” has been replaced with the more simple but ambiguous, “Courage.”
Three months later you’re sharing your two-bedroom flat on Hawthorne with her and her Manx cat that hits the litter box about 50% of the time. She meets your parents, convinces you to go to yoga class with her a few times, and she has an abortion in March of 2003. You leave your yahoo mail account open one evening in November and she sees you’ve been trading sexually explicit conversations with an ex-girlfriend. “I can never trust you again,” she says, and moves out three days later. You can’t tell if you’re relieved or horribly depressed. You surprise her with diamond earrings in the front yard of her parents house in suburban Los Angeles on Christmas day and she almost gets back together with you, but in the end she feels that things can never be the same so she goes to grad school in New Mexico to become a nutritionist. And a few nights ago you’re kinda buzzed and call her. She’s probably kept her 503 number so you dial it. Turns out it’s 3:45am in Memphis and she’s flabbergasted as to why you would wake her up. “We haven’t spoken in almost seven years,” she says, “Never call here again.” She hangs up with a deliberate finality and you notice you only have two cigarettes left. “I wonder what would have happened,” you think to yourself, “If we had gotten Thai food.”
Um, if Martin doesn’t win comment of the week, I’ll eat my hat.