Synopsis: Short story about a blind date with two people who share a strange passion for consuming anything they see, even non edible things.
I made sure no one was looking as I popped one of the plastic grapes from the fruit display into my mouth. I knew it was fake, but that made me want it all the more. I ate another, a warm and happy sensation washed over me. I found myself reaching for the shiny red plastic apple, which completed the display. Some saliva formed at the corner of my mouth and my heart raced in anticipation of its taste, its texture, it’s crunch. The apple made a loud cracking noise as I took a chunk out of it. That familiar sound of 1980’s plastic, probably manufactured in Europe sent a euphoric shiver down my spine. I had become quite the connoisseur over the years. Conscious of being under the watchful gaze of the other patients waiting for their turn with the dentist, I broke into a nervous sweat as I discretely slipped a prosthetic banana into my pocket to enjoy later with some syrup. Trips to Dr Brown had become a regular occurrence, I seemed to constantly need fillings or teeth replaced.
I worked as a cake decorator. My job was to create tiny and edible figures or everyday items, which would get placed delicately atop a three tiered wedding cake, frosted birthday cake or any other variety of cake which screamed “congratulations, happy birthday or happy bar mitzvah” I spent hours moulding butter cream and flower paste into tiny tables and chairs; miniature cars and aeroplanes were meticulously crafted out of marzipan and balanced on a landscape of chocolate trees and sugar flowers. The list of my creations goes on and on. I never would have imagined that years of manufacturing these “cakes with character” would lead to my unusual and special relationship with various objects. Somewhere along the line, the constraints of what I should and shouldn’t eat became blurred and I have never looked back since. Of course regular food appeals to me too, very much so. I probably enjoy eating a whole chicken, followed by a bucket or three of barbeque meat as much as the next person. I can’t, however, say that they enjoy the actual bucket as much as I do.
My urges to feast upon these unusual things were sporadic and unpredictable. Take last week for example; I was cleaning my teeth with minty waxy floss, thinking nothing of it until suddenly I remembered that I used to use it on birthday cakes to represent snail slime. I found myself groaning with pleasure as the spearmint taste washed over my tongue. Without a second thought, I unravelled the whole roll and was sitting on the cold bathroom floor eating and gagging on the stuff until it was no more. I was satisfied afterwards and my teeth were gleaming.
In general my eating habits didn’t bother me, but creating a meaningful relationship with an understanding man had become difficult as a result. I was struggling to make it past the first date barrier. I yearned for a sympathetic mate who would love me for all my faults and quirks. Last Christmas, I went on a date with a guy called Karl. I was really warming to him and things were going quite well until he excused himself to use the restroom. When he came back he found me gnawing on the sleeve of his jacket, the colour of which reminded me so much of tasty midnight blue icing. I had also finished off his main course and chewed some of his ice before spitting it back into his glass. The look on his face was enough to tell me that there wouldn’t be a second date and the bill he sent me later for the repair of the jacket confirmed it.
One of my best friends, Betty wanted to set me up on a date with her husband’s colleague. Her husband worked as a lumberjack and was a nice and kind man. I accepted the date feeling confident that any friend of his must also be a decent sort. I was told that this man shared my passion for eating and that he liked the larger, more curvaceous lady. I was secretly hoping that he would be one of those ‘feeder’ perverts, who would keep me confined to the bed, lavish me with cream cakes and chocolates, only moving me occasionally to wash my bed sores. I sucked loudly on my mobile phone as I envisioned it.
So, there I was getting ready for my blind date. I chose to wear a pair of black trousers and a low cut red top. The trousers actually used to be two pairs from my skinnier days, which I had made into one to fit my expanding body. I was a little overweight, curves in all the right places I liked to think. My bosom spilled out over my crimson top as I sprayed a little perfume in my wobbling cleavage just for good luck. I also squirted a bit into my mouth to see how it tasted; I winced at the sour taste, which disappeared after the fifth or sixth time. Didn’t taste as good as the toilet cleaner I had with my cornflakes, but not bad.
I boarded the bus and sat down on the first vacant seat, spread myself over it and undid the top button of my trousers for comfort. The button was reinforced with tough wire to deter my inevitable temptation to pull it off and chew on it. A layer of milky fat spilled out over the waistline. I licked the salty sweat off my top lip and unwrapped the roast chicken I had brought for the 5-minute journey to the restaurant. I devoured it whole, took large hungry bites enjoying the rush of warmth and delight it gave me when I sucked on the bones. I licked the metal bar on the seat in front of me as I digested the chicken, perfect way to finish a snack.
The restaurant was alive with atmosphere. A pianist was playing in a far corner and there was just the right amount of candlelight. I was nervous at the prospect of meeting this man and also of not being able to control my urges. I was told that my date would be wearing a red flower in his lapel. I looked around and eventually my eyes met this mountain of a man that I had been set up with. He had obviously forced his large frame into the chair, as it stayed firmly cupped around his rear end when he stood up to shake my hand. I noticed he was wearing sneakers, which were well worn with no laces. In contrast, his trousers were spotless and neatly pressed with a crease down the centre of the legs and an elasticised waistband, with no buttons. My cheeks flushed red when I realised that I had probably been staring at his waistline for longer than necessary.
“Hi, you must be Audrey, I’m Sam,” he said in a gruff voice as he extended a garden shovel disguised as a hand for me to shake.
As he squeezed my hand a little too tight, I noticed that he had nice eyes, deep brown like chocolate covered peanuts. He had a rough brown beard with ginger flecks and a light dispersal of freckles peppered across the bridge of his nose. He smiled and looked pleased. He had spinach stuck in his teeth. It reminded me of miniature seaweed appropriate for an ocean scene on a ‘Bon Voyage’ cake. He wasn’t bad looking, I smiled back and my heart fluttered.
I squeezed myself into the dining chair opposite his and noticed that he had already made quite a dent in the breadbasket. In fact there were 3 empty ones sitting on the table. I gazed hungrily at the intricacy of their woven patterns and heard my stomach rumble.
“I’m starving,” I said looking into Sam’s chocolaty eyes.
“So, am I,” he smiled, once again flashing the spinach.
“Lets order,” we said in unison, as if an unspoken understanding existed between us.
We both wanted food, there was no point in beating around the bush.
The starter was taking a long time to arrive and Sam and I had gotten through four more breadbaskets each. They lay empty on the table and yelled “bite me, bite me”, but I refrained, conscious of what had happened on my last date. There was something about the intense focus with which Sam ate that made me think he too was passionate about it. He held his gaze on the food for a few seconds without speaking as though stopping to appreciate its beauty, and then devoured it. I wasn’t sure if he was aware that he was doing this or not but I thought it was sweet. There was a small loose piece of wood hanging off the underside of the table, which I had been playing with. When it came away in my hand, I discretely passed it to my mouth and sucked on it quietly, enjoying the earthy bitty texture until the food arrived.
We talked about all the usual things, work, friends, weather, but I noticed that at the mention of food, Sam’s face lit up. The starters finally arrived. Sam had ordered the chicken wings and I had the ribs. Before the waiter even had time to put the plate down in front of me, I had reached up, placed a succulent rib to my lips and devoured it whole. I kept going without once looking up until the whole plate was gone.
“Wow, you really love to eat,” Sam commented with excitement in his eyes.” Would you like to try a wing?”
I snatched it from his hand and sucked on the juicy flesh, looking up occasionally to meet those deep mud pie eyes of his. I was enjoying this.
“So, what’s your favourite food?” he asked as he wiped some chicken skin from his lip.
With the mention of food, the mood of the conversation changed, there was tension in the air, good tension. It was becoming obvious that a love of eating was something we both had immense passion for, maybe too much. As we spoke about our love of consuming, it was as thou we were all alone in the restaurant, I hung on his every word rapt in conversation. Had we lived in an animated world tiny cupids would have been exhausted from working overtime and our hearts would have been beating through our sweaters and out of our chests. I felt comfortable enough with this perfect stranger to confide in him.
“I like to eat anything,” I admitted as I coughed up the piece of wood.
“Me too,” he said, “I think about it all the time.”
He looked down as though ashamed when he confided in me that he often ate things that he shouldn’t.
“This shirt used to have buttons,” he said as he fiddled uncomfortably with the cuff. “And a zip” Suddenly the absent shoe laces no longer required an explanation.
I told him about my eating the plastic fruit. I could tell that he understood as he nodded his head in agreement and listened intently. He told me that the fake fruits too had once tempted him one night at the theatre. They were attached to a ladies hat in the seat in front of him.
“I couldn’t help it, the grapes looked so ripe”, he told me as he made a fist with one hand as though to emphasise his regret.
His voice quivered as he explained how he was told to leave the theatre by security when they caught him with a mouth full of plastic grapes as an angry woman pelted him with her handbag.
“I understand, Sam,” I told him reassuringly as I slid my hand on top of his chubby fingers, which reminded me of cocktail sausages.
The main course arrived. I saw Sam’s mouth watering; his tongue lolled from that large head of his. He was feasting upon the rare steak with his eyes before he had even sampled it. He cut off a juicy piece and leaned across the table with his fork. I tasted the salty tender meat carefully and savoured its flavour as I swallowed it, all the while keeping eye contact with Sam. I was in a daring mood, so I picked the red flower off his lapel and popped it into my mouth. He laughed aloud; I could tell he was enjoying this. He put some hot wax from the candle onto his finger and brought it to his mouth. I did the same and a warm sensation swept over me as we both swallowed and gulped the hot substance.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked with a giddy wink.
Indeed I was. I wanted to take this man home and see what objects we could devour together. Our hormones were raging; both of us had been starved of an understanding companion for so very long, too long.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said with his jacket already under my arm.
As we left the restaurant hand in hand, Sam grabbed a bowl of plastic fruit from a nearby table. This was going to be one hell of a night.
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