It is no accident that Alex Comfort modeled The Joy of Sex on a cookbook. Unfortunately, he forgot to mention food. We are what we eat. A child explores the world around him by putting objects into his mouth. He is looking for a taste of something fine. In time, he develops other techniques for judging the world. Sight and fancy clothes. Sound and eloquent words. Our most basic and reliable sense is neglected. This is the age of the fast-food franchise. Perhaps it would be wise to consider the habits of our fore- fathers. They understood that a feast was a form of foreplay—that which satisfies hunger awakens other senses, other cravings. So feast your eyes.
Desire must be decanted and allowed to breathe before it can be consumed. One must savor her fragrance, swirl the taste of her on the tongue. The bouquet is rich, intoxicating. This will be a vintage evening. Robust, hearty, with a subtle and intriguing aftertaste. (The man who wrote Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes undoubtedly had a meager wine cellar.) She is inexhaustible, a cornucopia of carnal delights. One drinks to quench a thirst that has only just arisen. Suddenly, there is an awareness of other qualities. She is succulent. Ripe. A source of nourishment. This repast is past the point of no return; and yet, as one can plainly see, it has only just begun. Bon appétit. It is guaranteed nonfattening.
The final course is ready and waiting to be carved. She is rare. Tender. A delicacy to delight the senses. Food is the staff of life, but now another staff begins to stir. It is time for the beggar's banquet, the essential ingredient of a balanced diet. Ah, satiation.
