8. Chicken Fried Love

When you've seen every form of pornography perpetrated by man, studied every obscene website, visited every depraved link, when you have toed the imaginary line that separates men of passion and strange temperament from men whose IP addresses are federally known, where do you go? What do you do? When you have exceeded the limits of your own porn addiction, what lies beyond the mist?

Food, glorious food.

Recently I have taken to staring at food websites and imagining myself eating the hi-res goodness bursting forth. It's an erotic pursuit of a decidedly mental nature. Take the ButterBurger, Culver's love song to obesity, an offensively gluttonous burger that is literally slathered in butter (cheese optional, but I'd say yes to that one.) This is the food equivalent of snorting MDMA out of a strippers asshole - we know it's a bad idea, but the ingredients look so wonderful, and we only live once, right?

Food and sex as natural bedfellows is of course an idea as old as food and sex themselves; make no mistake, friends, your boy JK is no proponent of food as sexual play. Chicken fingers are rarely close to my penis, mashed potatoes are simply not in the conversation when my scrotum and I are having words. Long ago, a lady-friend attempted to introduce whipped cream into the equation (a calculus I will save for a later date); I said, can we just eat the whipped cream and then get to it?

My point is, this isn't about sex. It's about surpassing sexual expectation and entering in to a new contract with life, the kind that involves a painfully single young boy who is a foolish clown for love and who consumes avocados and honey mustard. This is about masturbating to photos of macaroni and cheese. It's about Panko breadcrumbs tumbling off of my very pale chest, and the women who may find that sexually interesting. It's about the hours (days?) I have spent looking at taco websites - god, the taco websites - envisioning myself in their various booths, chairs, side tables and grimy coves, taco in my right hand, mouth agape, eyes glassy, trembling with the anticipation of a gustatory climax that will peak, fall, and then crescendo again when the umami bite hits the roof of my mouth. It's about love.

So when I begin to feel a bit sorry for myself that, at the very peak of my sexual energies, I have not had relations in an embarrassingly long time, I simply fire up the trusty Macbook Pro and get down to some picture peeping. Skin? No, that's for amateurs, hobbyists.

I'm looking at you, ButterBurger.