We at AFB are not unadventurous fellows. We will try lots of stuff if it means we can get a sarky, pretentious, pseudo-philosophical blog post out of it. Hell, Gary has even eaten flies. But a line needs to be drawn somewhere, and being the moral arbiters that we are, we draw the line here: the bedroom.
And we’re not talking about hotel room-service here. What we’re talking about is the pervasive view that food in bed is somehow the height of eroticism, the zenith of arousal, the apotheosis of lasciviousness, the… [pass me the thesaurus]. From flavoured condoms in service station vending machines to Cosmo articles, Western society foists upon us the notion that food in bed is something adventurous people should aspire towards.
Well no more. We call bullshit. Food in bed is totally gross. It is about as appealing as finding pubes in your sandwich or jism in your bubble tea. After all, it follows the same logic: why is bringing food into the bedroom any better than bringing the bedroom into your food?
Now I have nothing against having a sip of water or whatever while in flagrante, and I have to admit that the thought of eating a grape or two, or some other nice, tidy little morsel, isn’t too bad either. But the crucial thing is that it would only ever be OK inasmuch as it remains incidental to the sexual act. Rendering said comestibles intrinsic to the act itself is a whole different business: there is a world of difference, after all, between popping a grape into your mouth during a bit of how’s your father, and popping it, well, somewhere else.
The notion that food and sex are each elevated by the presence of the other springs, no doubt, from a kind of basic fallacy (I could make some kind of pun here, but that would be lazy): that the sum of two positives is a bigger positive. That this is a blatant error can be seen by considering that ice cream and baked beans are both positives, but together are pretty rank. Similarly, poodles and lions are both kind of cool, but try putting Mitzi in the lion enclosure and see how that works out.
So we have established that sexular foodification is a bad thing. One final avenue of possibility remains open to my hypothetical interlocutor (an unpaid intern at Glamour magazine, probably): isn’t it all, like, just a matter of personal taste? If people get their jollies off of eating whipped cream out of each other’s fundaments, or smearing melted chocolate on each other’s areolae, then who the hell is some poxy, tinpot food blog to piss on their chips?
To which I reply: such people are monsters and perverts, and should be rounded up and shot.