I like food and I like sex. Indeed, I like a lot of food and a lot of sex. I am a woman of appetites. But not at the same time. I am not talking about someone attaching raspberries to my nipples (although, actually, no thank you), I am talking about those ‘important romantic evenings’, like Valentine’s, like birthdays, like anniversaries, which always seem to involve a feastly amount of food SWIFTLY FOLLOWED by (what is meant to be) some emotionally resonant love-making. Who came up with this tautologous torture? Nibbles and then a multi-course fandango and flights of wine and OK yes let’s have the cheese at the end, and a couple of chocolate bon bon things, and no, mint tea is not going to put a dent into that.
And now, now I am meant to want to have sex, to lie on my back (ouch, my tummy) and submit to more things being put into my body, when I am in a state of serious digestive shock, when I am numb with wine, when all I want to do is burp gently for a couple of hours. This, my fellow travellers, is called being ‘Too full to fuck’ and it is not really an excuse you are allowed to use, for some reasons to do with femininity and knowing not to have seconds.
But let’s be realistic, no-one expects you have sex half an hour after Christmas lunch; children are often present, and there is Dr Who on the TV, and there was bread sauce. Sex is for Christmas Eve and Santa costumes (sorry, this is another piece…). Cannot the same division be applied to one’s 10th anniversary celebrations and similar rituals. One night for eating, the following night for fasting and fucking. That way everyone is satisfied and no one gets indigestion. Win.