I watch the way men eat. I mean, some men are simply disgusting: they chew loudly, swaying their thick lips to and fro and sideways, barely holding the juices in their hooves, their pupils dilated, their teeth slowly sinking into blue, rare flesh with no remorse — these men are hot!
Think about it. Men fuck they way they eat. No, I didn't read this in any research journal; my partner and I thought of it over the kitchen table, eating. I grew up around simmering cazuelas, oregano, the sting of cumin, the fragrance of cilantro and dollops of gossip, a world before that crop of TV physicians pronounced anything edible a drug or a psychological crutch, before pious, vegan people told me not to eat what I wasn’t ready to kill (I was ready to shoot one of them, but I probably wouldn’t eat their sorry gristle because I like my asses meaty). It was a world layered thick with the estrogen butter of women now imitated by the Nigellas, Marthas, and Rachel Rays in the current harem of foodies.
