Cheeto-Eating Sex Versus Satisfying Our Hunger.
I lay there, sticky with whipped cream, and the remnants of Safeway’s chocolate cake smudged on my sheets.
Next to me was a man vaguely resembling Clark Kent, and without his glasses, Superman. I had forgotten all about him. And I woke to him with a start. Why this amnesia? Sure I could chalk it up to our 12-hour romance. Or better yet, his three-word after-sex commentary: “That was fun.”
Fun? Yeah, okay. Obviously I had now been initiated into 21st-century sex. It’s a sport, like pool. You jam your stick back and forth, and hope that one day you will land your balls in the hole. It’s festive. Buoyant at times. Better with alcohol. And at the end of the night, you can go home, take a bath, and forget the whole thing ever happened.
And I did. I forgot it happened. I forgot when he was still lying there. I forgot about it the way you forget about a vibrator. Or a porno clip. It’s Cheeto-eating sex. You may need to wash your fingers afterwards. But you have not been satisfied, only momentarily sustained. Cheeto-sex leaves you with two options: Eat more and feel sick. Or stop, be a little hungry, and get on with your life.
This morning I woke with a splitting headache and a strong desire for coffee. I felt agitated. And there was chocolate on my white sheets. I realized I had starred in my own little porno flick. And I didn’t even get royalties! I was hungry. Really hungry. Because I had only snacked. And now I wanted to eat.
“Oh, right. This is why I don’t do this,” I murmured. It’s not because I’m ashamed. It’s because I’m left growling like a mangy animal. I suddenly want to poke through the garbage for food. And I have a day where I mourn the possibility that I will never be satisfied with a man again.
Because it’s not the act of sex that satisfies me. It is the creative power of sex. It is the fire that both people add their breath to. The panting and gasping, that grows wild. And reminds you of what you are. Delicate. Messy. God. It is the antithesis of porn. Because you are not safe watching a screen, thinking, “That’s hot.” You don’t have the liberty to think. You are consumed. Opened.
You groan, and you fart, and you laugh. And when you let it all go, it is not dainty. Man or woman. You could lie there sobbing.
It requires trust.
I remember how that feels. And it was not with Prince Charming. Or Brad Pitt. It was with the unnoticed men of the world who said Yes. To me. To themselves. And to being swallowed whole. I want to take a moment to thank those men now. And those among you who will become those men. For we women are remembering our hunger.
And we will need to eat.
Isis Leeor is an award-winning author and lover of buttery croissants. She is trained in Body Psychotherapy, Tantra, dance, certified in Thought Pattern Management, Thai Massage, Quantum Touch, and is a graduate of the Knightsbridge Institute of Hypnotherapy and NLP. Her new venture, Feral Female, is an answer to the question 12 years of working with over 1,000 women worldwide has illuminated: how do we live as the full, voraciously alive women we truly are, in a society that is not quite ready for us?