Once, I made a cold Chinese chicken noodle salad for this drop-dead sexy actor I dated in New York City, with highly unexpected results. It's been a while since I thought about that night, but since I started in on the "Beware Men" theme a few postings ago with "Beware Men Who Don't Eat Vegetables" I thought it was time to follow up with one of the aforementioned "other" tales of woe. Make yourself comfortable, friends...there are more where these came from...
The Actor was a lithe, smooth, 6-pack packin' Broadway star with a taste for wine and women. I was recently out of a long relationship and jonesing for excitement...with no desire for a boyfriend, only the desire to taste, try, and test-ride someone new (yee-haw). We tumbled into an "arrangement" (I would be loathe to honestly call it a relationship) and before long, I found myself with a reliable part-time lover (cue Stevie Wonder.) There was no ambiguity about the terms of said arrangement; when he tweaked my nipple on the corner of 8th and Broadway on our first date, I knew this was not going to be something built on a foundation of love and trust. I did know, however, that I was probably in for a damn good time. And it was, for about 7 months. I like to call it the world's longest one night stand.
Though we weren't having a serious relationship, after 7 months of regular sex, my brain was addled enough that I was inspired to make the Actor a lovely dinner of poached Chinese chicken over a bed of soba and vegetables. (I admit it, I broke the cardinal rule: never cook for your fuck buddy. Mea culpa.) The Actor liked to eat clean, and keep himself in fine form both inside and out. It worked--I had never experienced an actual washboard stomach before (given my proclivity for schlubby intellectuals) and I'll be honest...I don't think I've seen one since. He was one smooth, lean, love-makin' machine. I was hooked.
So I produced this delightful, fresh and light dinner which he devoured appreciatively. The Actor was, shockingly, a man of few words in real life, a man who mumbled his way through most of our conversations (I often say he might have told me he was in love with me and wanted to marry me, and I would have never known because I didn't hear about 1/3 of all our conversations.) However, he spoke with his actions. The Actor devoured my meal. The Actor devoured me. Seduction via Chinese chicken salad? Mission accomplished. I felt smug, self-satisfied, full...in so many ways.
The next time we rendevous-ed, he was late. Really late. Like, 40 minutes late. I was waiting in my apartment with fresh sheets on the bed and smooth jazz on the radio, wondering what in hell had happened. And then he appeared, bearing a brown paper bag with a gift for me. Brain addled from 7 months of sex, I said "for me?" thinking he had bought me something thoughtful in thanks for the delicious and lovely dinner. I opened the bag to find...
ANAL BEADS.
They were pink. And cheap. And had rough plastic seams. Ouch.
And you know what? We slept together that night, and then I didn't hear from him again. He gave me the beads for my booty, and then gave me the boot. And that, my friends, is why one must beware men bearing gifts...and why one should never EVER cook for a man who's primarily just good for sex. Don't let the semen in your brain deceive you...you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, and you sure as hell can't turn a part time lover into the real deal.
Take it from one who knows.
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