The Spike Triptych

by Milarca C. Kruse

Happy Meals On Legs

Women's relationship with food precisely and accurately mirrors the relationship they have with carnal desire.

For females mouth-watering morsels are an obsessive constant.

Yet denial is championed and the trophies for virtue are slender hips and sharp waists and flat stomachs. Denial of lust is rewarded with a man's adoration and ultimately a shiny little carbon speckle.

And we go through life fantasizing of milkshakes and plump, fragrant slabs of beef and crunchy, fried fingers of potato in the same way we do of our lovers' most forbidden caresses.

So, food and lust are approached in the same manner.

The longing I have felt for men in my life can be described in culinary terms.

First, there was spicy, milky Mexican chocolate.

Cinnamon-mysterious, a hint of his depth, yet gritty and a little innocent.

He had to be tasted slowly, so that every subtle nuance and undertone of his toasted skin could be fully enjoyed.

Then there was the tall artificially-sweetened vanilla-cold Texas blond.

A filling treat from a fast-food joint.

I drank him quickly.

I ended up paying for this indulgence with a headache and a bulging belly. Oh, and a sense of passing regret.

Then there was the golden-roasted Greek.

Full of the flavor of olives and salt from the sea. Dominant and quiet, an intelligent challenge to my palate.

Left me hungry for a bigger portion, to dip my fingers into his creamy goodness one more time.

Then came the beloved maple fudge from New Brunswick.

His sugar was rush-inducing.

Gallic naughtiness and Angle restraint.

I savored him, his chunkiness, his generous, giving lips. Licked mine at the sight of the spriteful baby-blues behind his glasses.

The very British buttery shortbread was ever so delicious.

Freckles speckled over his flawless Bristol skin like meaty bites of nuts.

His hair was soft, like a baby's whisper. His tastiness and how satisfying he was, a delightful surprise.

In his simplicity, elegantly artful and self-deprecating yet undeniably sophisticated. A long swallow of jasmine-scented Earl Grey with a loving cloud of milk.

There are passions that are so prohibitive in their potential cost that they are better left as cravings.

Longings that if indulged would be so destructive that they are better off as just temptations. Unordered foods in the heart's menu.

To give in would mean to pay an exorbitant price, much higher than an ill-fitting pair of low-rise Brazilian jeans or a new cellulite dimple.

Indulgence would be to lose a man's friendship, his devotion, his respect.

There was the wholesome, curly-haired philosopher from Albuquerque.

Inviting, full of warmth, tart-juicy apples in a complex crust.

Every night watching him sleep, as unsullied as a child.

I shared my thoughts and grief with him, his aroma my comfort food.

Seeing him lie in the narrow twin bed in front of mine became an impossible torment.

And then my newest favorite, a prime cut of well-grilled man.

Fresh, bright, overflowing in his nascent maturity, wild and reticent.

Somewhat dark and mildly elusive.

Reminiscent of aged whisky with just a splash of soda water or Australian Shiraz wine.

His body shared with enthusiastic joy, his heart much harder to make mine.

And I find myself wishing I would enjoy this meal for a very long time.

Copyright © Milarca C. Kruse 2003