I decided to follow through on my initial threat to write about cheesecake. I would like to know what you think of this one and which one you prefer.
Let me tell you about my first love—my delicious, satisfying, seductive, often illicit and frequently abusive first love. He has stood by me through good times and bad. He knows me intimately. My first love has given me so much pleasure and yet such exquisite pain. Generous and attentive to a fault. Unforgettable. Unbridled. Undeniable.
When we first met I was too young to know any better. He slipped into my life when I needed him most. My mother introduced us because he fulfilled a need she could no longer provide. When she handed me over to him she believed it was for the best, and I cannot fault her for it. He had always been good to her; he was good enough for her daughter. Mother had no idea what she unleashed into my life.
From the moment he touched my lips, I was lost. I cannot say our first time was pleasant. I had no clue what I was doing and made a terrible mess of it. But he didn’t seem to mind. My first love was patient and persistent.
My first love was Food.
As a girl I fell for his sweet charms and creamy promises. I can never let him go. I have had other beaux, but Food’s affection has out-lasted them all. He had me at “open wide” and I have belonged to him completely ever since.
I am not so naïve to believe myself in a monogamous relationship with Food. He is a right Cassanova who tries it on with every woman. Sometimes his conquests remain mere vanilla flirtations. They strategically and sensibly manage his minefield romance, deleting Food from their contact list when things grow too heavy.
But even women who reject Food never forget him. In dark hours of loneliness those whom Food has hurt the most will drunk-dial his number seeking comfort or shriek his name whilst writhing between another man’s sheets.
Others, like me, engage in a deeply meaningful BDSM marriage with Food that lasts a lifetime. Hungrily beating, whipping, scoring, mashing and burning each other’s tenderised flesh until we collapse like soufflés. I shudder to confess the shameful acts I have committed for my love of Food. Third helpings of him because I could not get enough. Sneaking away in the middle of the night just to have him all to myself. Crawling on my belly begging him for more.
Endless humiliation. Endless ecstasy. Endless love.
A lifetime of this exquisite torture has moulded me into a swollen figure of sinful debauchery. I wear my extra-large disgrace like a scarlet letter F. Everyone can see what Food and I get up to—publically and behind closed doors. Like prudish Victorian matrons, society shuns me for brazenly exhibiting my Food lust. But my body cannot hide its desire.
Such a volatile romance would inevitably lead to heartache. Like all relationships, my first love and I had many “domestics” which eventually required professional intervention. Hand in hand, side by side on a therapist’s sofa, Food and I sought help.
‘Abusive co-dependency,’ our Couples Counsellor declared. ‘Look at how he treats you. Look at what you have become for him. He cannot exist without you. You need him to need you. Not good. Perhaps a trial separation is in order.’
‘No!’ I screech in horror. ‘I cannot live without him.’ I clutched Food possessively, certain this learned professional meant to rip him from my arms forever.
‘Please,’ our Counsellor whispered to Food. ‘Let me speak with her alone.’
Food met my uncertain gaze. I lowered my eyes submissively as my lover walked out the door. Alone at last, the Counsellor turned to me, her face full of compassion.
‘I cannot tell you what to do. The choice is yours,’ she assured me. ‘But I must warn you of the consequences. This relationship is not healthy.’
‘I can see how much you love him,’ the Counsellor admitted with a slight tone of scorn. ‘But he’s no good for you. You know that, don’t you?’
For a painfully long moment I said nothing. The Counsellor waited. At last I nodded mutely. ‘What can I do?’ I softly sobbed.
“Run,” she urged me. “Run before he weighs you down. Run or he will be the death of you,” my Counsellor advised.
‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ I sniffed.
‘Then start by walking. Right here. Right now. Walk away from him.’
I peeled myself off the couch. I stood tall. I walked across the room. I loped down the hall. I jogged out the door. And then I ran.
I ran away from my first love. My darling Food. I spend hours every day running off his influence, though I cannot say I never looked back. There have been tearful reunions, explosive rows and many awkward social occasions. Our break-up hasn’t been easy, but I remain strong. Despite his temptations.
‘We should be civil,’ I explained to Food over coffee. ‘We are bound to encounter one another at parties. Let us try to be friends,’ I vowed sincerely.
But it’s impossible. No woman can remain friends with Food. We love him or we hate him. He is a first love to be cherished or he is an adversary to be defeated. Food is an obsessive amour not easily dumped, though I try and try again to unchain my heart from his embrace.