Sex and Bacon

WHY I LOVE THINGS THAT
ARE VERY, VERY BAD FOR ME

Sarah
Katherine
Lewis

SEX AND BACON
WHY I LOVE THINGS THAT ARE VERY, VERY BAD FOR ME

Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Katherine Lewis

Published by
Seal Press
A Member of Perseus Books Group
1700 Fourth Street
Berkeley, California 94710

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by review ers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lewis, Sarah Katherine.
Sex and bacon : why I love things that are very, very bad for me / by Sarah Katherine Lewis.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-58005-228-3
ISBN-10: 1-58005-228-2
eBook ISBN: 9781580052825
1. Vices. 2. Pleasure—Social aspects. I. Title.
BJ1534.L49 2008
394.1’2—dc22

2008004011

Cover and interior design by Domini Dragoone
Interior photographs ©
www.123rf.com
Printed in the United States of America
Distributed by Publishers Group West

To the ladies and gentlemen ‘who have shared my bed
and eaten my food, especially those of you who arrived
with bags of groceries and stayed to ‘wash dishes.

I.
DESIRE

I told you from the start just how this would end
When I get what I want I never want it again
—Hole

I was out dancing last night with a pack of dear friends. A stranger approached our table preceded by the eye-watering aroma of gin and tobacco imperfectly filtered through skin. He finished his drink with a flourish and slammed his empty glass onto our table.

“You’re pretty hot, baby” he slurred, breathing hot juniper fumes into my face. “Did those tattoos hurt?”

“My guess is you’re pretty drunk,” I said. My friend Jessica tittered.

He ignored my assessment, swaying in his shoes. “You’re hot,” he repeated. “I’m going to buy you a drink.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I have one.”

“I’m going to buy you another of the same—- what is it?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t, but thank you just the same.”

The men—my friends—at the table glanced at each other, unsure whether to intervene.

I maintained level eye contact with the stranger. “See you later,” I said.

In a flash the stranger’s smile turned sour. “You’re a
bitch,”
he said. Snatching his empty glass protectively, he stomped away from our table. “Freaky bitch,” he muttered.

My eyes met Jessica’s for a moment. I shrugged.
Could have been worse
.

She nodded.

Both of us knew that could have gotten ugly. We were grateful it hadn’t, and that our sweet male friends hadn’t been forced to act
in loco boyfriendis
out of their own senses of honor. My cheeks felt hot, but I didn’t think my flushed skin showed in the dim light of the club. At least, I hoped it didn’t.

I slipped my jacket back on, covering my tattoos.
Protective coloration
, I thought, imagining myself melting into invisibility in the gloom of the club, a tiny leaf-colored salamander keeping very still on a branch.

After a few cocktails, though, I rallied. The DJ was playing our table’s requests back to back, and it was no longer possible to remain seated with all that booty-shaking music wooing me out onto the dance floor. I shoved my jacket under our table and went out to dance with my friends, male and female.

Stomping and whirling, my back slick with sweat and my tattoos transformed into brilliant plumage under the flashing lights, I felt murderously sensual. As I got on top and took the music between my thighs it fucked me back hard, pounding into my cunt and my belly, and my desire for myself at my freest and wildest rose up and set everything on fire, turning the walls of the club to gold and crimson.

As I danced, I saw the man who’d offered to buy me a drink and then insulted me. He was leaning into his beverage at a little table next to the bar, alone and gin-dazed. He’d taken my complicity in being his object of desire for granted, assuming that I’d dressed to attract him and others. Sensing my gaze, he glanced at me briefly then turned his attention back to his drink. His squalid, man-size desire was no match for mine, and we both knew it—what was a thousand times more important was what
I
wanted and how effortlessly I could take that desire and more from the friction between my hips.

Out on the dance floor with my beautiful, fierce friends, with the music moving inside me like a slow fist, I was burning hot—a feral thing, tearing through skin to meat with sharp teeth, stripping flesh from bone.

I may be a freaky bitch, but I’m a freaky bitch who can bust a serious move on the dance floor. And some nights that’s all a freaky bitch needs.

THIS BOOK IS
about fucking and food. The intersection of both sets is desire.

But desire itself is rarely uncomplicated. Desire can make us feel powerful, exultant, and free—but yearning can also be dangerous. Sometimes when we inspire desire, we’re punished. And sometimes when we allow others to lavish their desire on us, we end up needing a long, hot shower.

The chapters “Eating Out” and “Southbound” are two sides of the same you-are-what-you-eat coin “Risk” finishes the set.

“Earl Grey Tea” is a love story. So is “Britney.”

“Sploshing” delineates the perils of using food as erotic outer-wear.

“Moules” is a DIY mash note to mollusks.

Don’t be scared. Put this in your mouth, and swallow.

A WARM TONGUE IN YOUR ASS IS LIKE BEING BABY-WIPED:
an infantile exercise in gentle, soap-free cleaning, more about the idea of boundaryless porn star virtuosity than actual mind-blowing erotic sensation—or so I’ve found, anyway.

For a while there it seemed like all my male dates were pulling out oral-anal during our first sexual encounters, as if eating pussy proficiently suddenly wasn’t enough to secure a return invitation to my boudoir. For three months, every man I took to bed chose to consider my hindquarters his own personal Old Country Buffet line, moving from carving station to (tossed) salad bar in predictable succession. It was as if they all subscribed to the same cheerfully salacious man-rag, a newsletter to which ladies were not privy:
This week, gentlemen—stun her with a hot, squirmy tongue In her back door!

And I
was
stunned—the first time. Definitely the second time. But by the third time, and the fourth time, I began to wonder if they were all phoning each other and sharing helpful hints on a toll-free public information hotline about how to fuck me. And I really wanted to set the record straight with the man who was disseminating the idea that I wanted to impersonate a human salt lick in the bedroom. Because that man had his information wrong—dead wrong—but he sure was a vociferous son of a bitch. You had to admire his “British are coming!” enthusiasm. Too bad he wasn’t circulating better intelligence. Because whenever I got my asshole licked, thanks to the misguided anal-evangelism of my own personal Paul Revere, it was
only
the British who were coming. I sure as hell wasn’t. Being on the receiving end of an intestinal Wet Willy didn’t get me hot. It just made me want to offer my lover du jour a mouthful of Listerine or a stick of sugar-free gum as I hastened him out my door, never to return.

True—after a career in adult modeling, my asshole was usually so clean you could eat off it, like my own personal hygienically pine-scented kitchen floor. I learned to relax—not to fight the baby wipe—not to tense up. I could do this by pretending to be a tiny kitten being cleaned all over by my mommy cat’s raspy sand-tongue. Sometimes it even felt good, like using a washcloth in a steamy bath after a particularly laborious dump. But usually, my silent tolerance during the act stemmed from resignation: It was clear that I had some kind of ass-karma to live through, and that regardless of my preferences, it was best to let my lovers act on me as they wished. I learned to lie still, keeping my ass muscles helpfully loose. I tried to avoid any contemplation of vengeful farting.

And after a while, I found a man who
didn’t
try to shove his tongue in my rectum on our first sexual romp, and after he made me come with his mouth on my pussy and his fingers inside me, I kissed him (on the mouth—you can do that when your lover’s lips and tongue haven’t just been up your rear) and declared myself done with mommy-cats and warm washcloths and human-tongue baby-wiping.

I have no regrets: My kitchen floor may be spotless, but I prefer serving dinner in an intimate location involving a little more ambience and romance.

IT’S ORAL SEX IF YOU’RE FEELING CLINICAL, OR IF YOU’RE
trying to pretend you don’t do it.

You might have decided that “going down” sounds too casual, “sucking dick ‘ too self-consciously tough, “eating pussy” more information than necessary. You might be discussing an act you haven’t done in ages, or an act that hasn’t been performed on you in frustrating, maddening weeks by a lazy lover. So
oral sex
it is—a term so prim it’s nearly virginal.
Oral sex? Why, no, thank you.I had a late lunch
.

But—it’s
eating pussy
if you’re sassy, talking tough, describing what makes you come or what you fantasize about doing to the hot girl at your gym.
Munching box
or
munching carpet
are retro terms for the same thing—but who has a “carpet” anymore in this age of hysterical depilation? Pubic rugs have gone the way of sanitary napkin belts, girdles, hot rollers, and pointed-cone bras. But naked or gloriously, anachronistically furry,
eating pussy
is all about the smooth slide into salt, a long slow dive into warmth and scent. There’s no particular moment when you have to make a decision: swallow, or not? Girl-juice is a constantly fluctuating variable from start to finish. You go down, and from the moment you gently part labia and burrow in, you’re drinking her like Scotch broth.

What about
sucking cock
—words that describe the man you love pushing his hips up and moaning with pleasure as you take him deep, because yes, you are that nasty, and yes, you want it that much, and yes, his whole world right now is his cock in your mouth, and you are breathless with the power and devotion of such intimate assembly.

And swallowing? I’ll admit that when I think about all the come I’ve consumed in my life, the sheer volume becomes alarming. I imagine the restaurant-size jugs of mayonnaise occupying shelf space at Costco in a neat industrial phalanx. How many of those? And how many more, if I count the come that’s splashed my tits, my ass, my face—and in one memorable instance, that shot up my nose in a reverse milk sneeze, dripping down my throat like cocaine for the next half hour? How many gallons —or, if you prefer,
liters
—in my whole life? The thought of that kind of quantity can really make a girl consider spitting instead.