WARNING TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WHO IS A WONDERFUL, DEVOTED READER, BUT MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ ANY FURTHER.
Mom, I'm about to talk about intimate stuff, the kind of stuff that you might not want to know. My apologies that your son choose such a saucy, depraved wench for a wife. Continue at your own risk.
This is the Facebook post I began the day with:
My dream was even better. It involved being fed, from the man's own hand, amazing food and watching the llamas chill on his veranda.
This post isn't about llamas. It's about sex.
My dream was a sizzling, too-hot-for-TV number (unless it's HBO because those True Blood buggers get their kink on) that caused me to hit snooze—not once, but twice. There was enough heat to fire a brick oven. An oven in which Dream Alton made me a sexy goat cheese and pheromone pizza and Dream Me clawed at Dream Alton like a hungry cat in heat. The kind that would make sweet love to a ferret if that ferret was also making smoky BBQ ribs.
It was a dream that was almost entirely about food. My dream lover was Chef Christian Grey, a dominant man bent on feeding me in bites and licks until I melted like so much butter, begging for more, just a forkful more. Very little of it involved touching; it was more like tantric take-out.
But make no mistake, it was a sex dream. There was flirting between tastes. There was almost touching. There was desire—not only mine for a dangerously attractive souffle. Dream Alton was a tease; all come-hither cooking and almost-making-out. Trust me, Dream Me tried to seduce him. It was embarrassing.
It was also delicious. And kind of disgusting and bizarre even more so than that business in Nine 1/2 Weeks when Mickey Rourke was still hot enough that Kim Basinger allowed him to empty an entire fridge-worth of food on her because who doesn't want to get busy with honey on their privates?
|Image borrowed from the IMBD page. Hot version of Mickey Rourke no longer available in stores.|
In short, I loved it. Something visceral has stayed with me since I woke up. It's here with me still, flapping in my gut like self-destructive, tarted-up butterflies looking for a rare steak and a night without questions. It's had me counting the hours until my husband and I might rendezvous in the boudoir for a little chef and naughty sous-chef role-play.
I am both acutely aware of Mr. Brown's status as Not A Sex Symbol and equally sure that I will now have to add him to my List. The List some spouses keep for use with a "Get Out of Monogamy Free" card. Previously, every line on my list has been devoted to Matt Damon. I've cleared a spot for Dream Alton.
What the tarty butterflies are telling me is that this kind of dreamscape can be a tool for keeping the marital bed toasty, if full of crumbs. A good marriage is all about the long game. Your ardor is never going to resemble the early days of groin-tingling excitement that once drew you together. It's not likely you can raise a family and maintain the energy required for a night of insatiable desire. But marriage can be a safe haven. At least, the good marriages can. It's a partnership in which, when the right kind of trust and love has been established, the kind that sees past post-baby belly and breasts, sees past man-hair creeping up the back of the thighs and over the butt-cheek boundary, it's okay to get your freak on. In fact, it may well be encouraged.
Tonight I will be cooking with gas, but it won't be in the kitchen. For the rest of you, I hope your Dream Alton brings the sugar and the spice.
If you can't let your freak out, at least vote for mine.