By Anthony Paull
The Dating Diet
Pardon me. I've been misguided.
I was under the impression that the fastest way to a gay man's heart is through his butt-hole. But now, lo and behold, I've recently discovered that gay men are no better than straight men, expecting their partners to prepare them dinner — to fill their bloated bellies with food, food, food — in order to earn their love.
My question is: How did this happen? Has the advent of gay marriage given us a reason to turn on the stove? Since when do gay men eat anyway? For me, it seems a tad dated, almost archaic. I mean, sure, we'll nibble here and there when no one is looking. And true, we'll sample a dish of raw fish at the hippest sushi restaurant in town. But eat an entire meal?
Forgive me. I know. I'm ranting. But with the holidays upon us, I find myself spiraling out of control, having recently learned that my man has been harboring a dirty, little secret. It seems he has evolved, developing an appetite just like every other man in this ridiculous world. Ridiculous me, I thought he was above the consumption of calories. But no. A cock in the back-end and a cook in the kitch-en, this is what he expects of me.
Oh, how times have changed. During the courting process, he was all, "Don't worry, baby. We'll eat out. I'll barbeque. Or we'll put a meal in the microwave." It used to be so easy, I tell you.
"That's part of the baiting process," my friend Alex tells me. "They wine and dine you. Then a few months later, they slip you their mother's cookbook."
"Lovely. So giving him killer head each morning isn't enough anymore? I'm supposed to don an apron and stir slop in a pot by the stove? Why didn't I read the small print before I signed up for this whole gay thing?" This is what I ask myself. Still, I've never been one to back down from a challenge, so I decide, screw it — I'm going to do it. I'm making my man a home-cooked meal for the holiday.
The problem: I have no clue how to cook. My Italian mother (God bless her soul) was a wonderful woman, but a cook? Well, let's just say her idea of Beef Stroganoff called for dumping a can of chunky beef soup over a plate of egg noodles. And when I tried this feat a few weeks back, my boyfriend didn't find it too cute.
"What is this?" he asked, as I presented him a plate.
"Beef Stroganoff."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, not really. But if you're smart, you'll pretend it is," I stated, waiting for him to take a bite.
For the longest time, this has been my method of madness: dump random shit on his plate and allow no room for questions. I suppose that's why he's never encouraged me to cook for him in the past. He knows damn well I have no patience to follow some formulaic recipe. My cooking has always leaned more toward the experimental side. My theory: fake it 'til you bake it.
Well, not this time. I have this recipe for meatloaf. I found it on the Internet. It seems easy enough, except I can't pronounce some of the ingredients, and I have no idea where they shelve thyme sprigs at the supermarket. The recipe calls for the leaves of a thyme sprig. What is a thyme sprig, you ask?
The sad truth is I haven't the faintest idea and neither does the young, pregnant girl behind the register. Chef Tyler Florence — the bastard — should have calculated that most human beings in the world don't know what a thyme sprig is. His Web site stated it would take no more than 20 minutes to prepare this meal, but 40 minutes later, I'm traipsing down a grocery aisle lined with housewives and herbs, wondering if I'll need to visit Sherwood Forest to locate a mother-freaking thyme sprig.
Someone tell me, why am I doing this? I have a cart full of groceries, a heart full of doubt, and I could have saved face, time and money by purchasing take-out. Back home, I bang a pound of red meat into a gooey work of art, spicing it with parsley, garlic cloves, and the leaves of a thyme sprig. But why bother? Will my man love me more if it turns out perfect? Why do I suddenly want it to be perfect? Is a great meal comparable to a great blow-job?
They both fill a hole; one in the stomach, the other in the mouth. Is that what cooking is truly about? Is good food digestible sex? Can massaging a man's stomach with meatloaf get him off? Who can tell? I may never know, but for tonight, it sure feels orgasmic when my man takes a bite, smiles and asks for seconds.
