The Right Write Rite

Edible

Love story

A feast for the senses.

I have never told anyone how we first got together.

I had never met anyone so fantastically devoted to their senses as she was. She sought out beautiful things, places.

She hated discordant sounds. But it was her sense of taste that she luxuriated in. No place was this more overtly displayed than at the dinner table. The place were family gathered to meet and share a good meal, where anyone could witness a person's flagrant wantoness for edible delights.

She had a way of eating that made any red-blooded hetero man have to adjust himself, thankful for the napking that resided in his lap. The closed eyes and parted lips were more often witnessed in the confines of a bedroom than in the public forum of the dining room. Worst of all were the noises she couldn't help but make at the tasting of something transcendant; the quiet mewings of pleasure, the moans of ecstasy. Everyone knows a woman that squeals at th arrival of dessert, or lets slip a moan after the first bite of a chocolate truffle.

But all these women and their noises paled in comparison to her. The quiet setting aside of knife and fork to leave room for what was to come. The dessert was always quickly and uanbashedly ordered. Once its impending arrival was seen conversation on her part would cease and she would track its movements to the the table the way a panther stalks its prey or the way one watches a lover from across the room. Once in front of her she turns the plate so it appears to its best advantage. With a deep inhale the tiniest bite is taken as if to remind herself what she's been missing or out of fear that once it touches her tongue she will be unable to control herself. She paces herself, taking small bites, making sure to chew it thoroughly. Every last bit is scraped from the dish, sometimes with her finger, and she is loath to share, despite anyone's insistence that it's far too much for her to eat on her own. Finished, she sits back from the table, hands delicately folded on her stomach, and exhales contentedly, like she's been holding her breath the entire time. Maybe she has.

I loved watching her eat. It was my sweet torture, the only thing that made me think I was harboring some masochistic tendencies. I was a voyeur into a world that I never hoped to understand. Food tasted good, I had likes and dislikes, but nothing inspired me the way it did her. Many times did I catch myself wondering if she made the same expressions while engaged in other, similar, seductive activites, but only in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind did I wish to be the one making her look that way. Being in her presence often left me with the sort of lustful thoughts that one isn't supposed to have when it comes to other men's wives, or ex-wives. I tried to forget her everytime I left, but the bland food I forced myself to eat served only to remind me of everything I had left behind. It got to the point where I anxiously awaited every meal with her. It wasn't just the pleasure of a well prepared meal I looked forward to, but the theater of watching her eat it. I was like a married man who could do nothing during the week but imagine his upcoming weekend tryst. Then I came undone. I don't think she meant to torture me or turn me on, but I couldn't help my reaction any more than the sun can help rising. We went to a BBQ. The food was delicious but looking across the table at her I grew hungry for something else entirely. She had cleaned the ribs of meat and her eyes were closed as she savored the pork with its sweet and spicy sauce. Then she began to do something that grabbed the attention of most of the guys there; she began to lick the suace from her fingers. Men are very visual creatures. The sight of her tiny pink tongue darting out, swirling around her finger was mesmerizing. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching a hand across the table and bringing her finger to my own mouth. Surely if the same sauce I'd also had tasted that good, she must be part of the reason. Before I could do anything foolish I left the table and walked into the trees that surrounded us. If only my absence had been enough to keep her away while I cooled down. I should have known better. She was behind me in a minute, wanting to know if I was okay. I was far from it, but I couldn't ignore her. I turned to face her and make my excuses, but the words died in my throat. She was still licking that damn sauce from her fingers. She saw were my eyes focused, and she slowly removed her finger from her mouth. I don't know what I looked like at that moment, but she saw something in me. I saw her pupils dilate and her mouth open slightly. Next thing I knew I'd taken her in my arms and crushed my lips to hers. Her lips were sweet and sticky with a hint of spiciness. I actually remember thinking that the sauce did taste better off of her. She wasn't close enough to me. Drunk off the taste of her, I pulled her closer, tighter, dimly aware of the fact that she was clinging to me and glad of it. Despite the fact that anyone could've found us like that, it was the little sound she made that made me pull back, completely aware of the fact that this was not my dream. I was surprised to see her smiling at me. "What?" "You taste good." I laughed, I couldn't stop. This definitely wasn't how I expected this to end. I leaned my head down to kiss her again, gently, tasting. "Not as good as you." A beatific smile was her only response as she turned and walked away from me, leaving me totally confused and more than a little aroused. Then I understood; she'd given me a tantalizing taste of all that could be. The next move was up to me.