Food of Desire

I was nineteen, almost twenty. That magical, sensuous age. I’d heard men say it was the sexiest word in the English vocabulary. Nineteen. I was lithe, fertile, and sexual, with glossy skin and lustrous golden hair. No longer a girl but still not a woman, I was of that age when men young and old desired you, and I could spend my hard earned holiday time in Ireland without my parents permission.

A summer in Ireland! I couldn’t imagine anything more glorious. Especially when I would be pursuing my interest in cooking. My parents could not understand my obsession with food, even though they occasionally had to eat themselves. They were both lecturers and were too busy working or researching to spend too much time thinking of food. That’s how I learnt to cook, with a little help. It was either feed myself or starve. My parents preferred cigarettes and bourbon, so to eat well I had to cook for myself. It surprised me when they had been so ready to agree to fund my trip to Galway, but I reasoned their decision was partly inspired by their recent discovery of a sex-tape of me and Greg, one of their students, indulging in clumsy oral sex on the kitchen floor. I guessed they would rather see me waste my life pursuing unfulfilled culinary dreams than with an unwanted baby.

I had wanted Greg to be as excited about me as of the food I cooked for him, so I concocted a plan that involved dipping various fruits into chocolate and taste-testing the results. My plan worked well, and one thing had led to another, and the tasting and testing had moved to various parts of our bodies. I had forgotten about the security camera my parents had installed, so when Greg and I ended up naked I never imagined my parents would get to witness the sight of their daughter, bare breasted and covered in chocolate, sucking the cock of their favorite pupil. I will never forget the humiliation I felt when I walked into the lounge the following morning and found my parents watching that video. I immediately proposed my trip to Eire and they unsurprisingly agreed readily.

I couldn’t wait to leave! I wasn’t nervous or scared leaving the family home, just desperate to leave behind the humiliation and shame I was feeling., so when I waved goodbye to my parents at Bristol Airport it was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I’d hoped the whole shameful episode with Greg would be forgotten by the time I retuned, so was feeling optimistic about my trip by the time I had settled on the Ryanair flight to Shannon. My optimism was also raised at the thought of having Uncle Simon greet me on my arrival.

Simon wasn’t really my uncle. He was my dad’s best friend from their college days and, because he had spent almost every summer at our cottage in Wiltshire, was as good as family to me. He really thought the West Country the best place to get the full benefit of the English summer, which I could understand as he lived in London throughout the remainder of the year. The memories of those times are as vivid now as they ever were. I cannot taste the scent of red wine and mature cheeses without thinking of Simon. They were lazy, heady months of sun and hedonism. My parents are naturists, so we always spent our time at home naked, and Simon always got into the spirit of things when he holidayed with us. He was, and still is, a very attractive man, and as my flight to Ireland made it’s steady assent into the faultless blue sky I recalled the memory of seeing him without clothes for the first time. He was like a god in my eyes. Tanned, muscular, and supremely endowed compared to the other friends and family I had seen nude, he was my first girly crush. I adored him. My mother, I remember, was also impressed with his masculinity, as I caught her more than once showing her appreciation of him when my Father wasn’t home. But I could not be angry at my Mother for her betrayal for I understood what drove her to be unfaithful. Simon was irresistible, and instead of malice I discovered the joys of masturbation whenever I caught them alone.

So having spent so much time in the Southern countryside I was not surprised when he turned his back on the rat race and moved to Galway. The relaxed, arty pace suited him. I imagined the impact he would have on that unsurprising city, that god of men and of the kitchen. Within hours of Simon’s arrival at our family home we’d all begin seeing ourselves in a different, more sophisticated way. Our everyday lives took on a bit of glamour. My parents would climb down out of their ivory towers, and Dad would whistle old Stones tunes. Mum would giggle and blush and take to wearing chic scarves and dark red lipstick. And I would be just about the happiest I would ever remember, because Uncle Simon and I shared a passion that belonged to no one else. Food. He was a chef, and one of the best in the country, and swiftly became my mentor. Everything I knew then and know now I learned from him. He was my educator, in every way. We spent hours in the kitchen trying out new recipes, and over the years I blossomed from a shy, awkward girl into a passionate, determined woman. And all because of Simon.

For while my father and mother could take it or leave it when it came to food, Uncle Simon and I would both practically swoon over a particular sauce or a perfectly grilled steak. Mushrooms were never just mushrooms, they were chanterelles, morels, porcinis, Portobello’s: all music to my ears and a symphony in my mouth. With Uncle Simon, fruits and vegetables became an odyssey of pleasure, and a snack of an apple and cheese became an experience infused with magic. Because it wasn’t just an apple, it was a perfectly ripe Golden Delicious and it wasn’t just cheese, it was perfectly ripe, soft, rich Brie. Simon taught me to taste, savor and linger over a meal or a glass of wine. I quickly grew from having little thought for what I ate to appreciating every morsel that passed through my lips, so that when I gave Greg oral pleasure, it was with the same passion as I gave when devouring a bowl of luscious strawberries. Sex and food had become almost the same, for they were pleasures to be enjoyed with the fingers, mouths and lips. The senses and tastes were heightened as equally in the bed as in the kitchen. Simon had shown me this about food, and after the episode with Greg I realized he had unknowing taught me about the sensual side.

At the time of his last visit I had been fifteen and Uncle Simon thirty-two, and though I hadn’t fully realized it, he had become the standard by which I judged men. It had proven a difficult standard to bear for I found most men lacking. Greg had come close, mainly because he loved food and had been almost like a brother to me, but as my culinary skills had increased at the same rate as my libido I thought no man could ever truly satisfy me. Simon had proven a tough act to follow, for when you’re fifteen and lonely a man like he is hard to beat, so when I saw him at the arrivals lounge of Shannon airport the look on his face almost had me on the next flight home to Bristol.

I recognized him immediately. He was still tall and dark, though some silver had worked its way into his temples. His eyes were still a sensuous, chestnut brown and his mouth still almost too beautiful for a man, the lips giving way to a sensuousness that hinted at his true nature. I realized with one look that I’d been half in love with him for years and now, catching sight of him anxiously checking the line of disembarking passengers, I felt the full impact of my feelings. He hadn’t caught sight of me or if he had, he didn’t recognize me. But I sure recognized him, as the thudding of my heart attested. As with most momentous occasions in my life, I did what I usually do when overcome with emotion; I lost my balance and promptly tripped over my carryon luggage, landing in a heap on the airport floor. There ensued a loud tangle of unintelligible cursing from my fellow passengers, some of which sounded unpleasantly rude. And that is how Uncle Simon finally noticed me. A quick look of annoyance crossed his face as he took in the spectacle and then he turned to walk away, obviously still not recognizing me.

“Uncle Simon” I called out, “It’s me, Alana. Alana Sandrey!” He turned back around and stared at me. I willed myself not to start crying but I was close to tears. I was tired. I was far enough from home, but not far enough to still feel the humiliation of the sex tape. I was embarrassed. I was in pain. And I was fast becoming aware that my beloved Uncle Simon looked pretty disgusted at the first sight of me he’d had in four years.

“Good lord Alana, what happened to you?” he asked, looking me over in an odd way.

“I tripped… I know, how stupid, I mean I’m not even in Ireland for ten seconds and I’m…” He didn’t let me finish.

“No,” he said, looking me up and down, staring in what was a pretty good impression of surprise at the sight of my newly formed plump breasts. “I mean what happened to you? You grew up… Christ!”

I could feel the heat of shame rise up in me instantly. I knew my face was as red as a rose and I made a ridiculous attempt to cross my arms over my suddenly awkward breasts. I have no idea then of the exact measurement of my assets, but as my ass complemented the size of my breasts and I had a relatively small waist, “Deliciously Curvy” was the title I gave my generously endowed shape. I was especially ashamed as this was the first time Simon had seen me as a woman. At our last meeting I had been a flat chested girl with no ass and no sex drive. Now I was a curvy woman with a young woman’s libido, and as Uncle Simon stared at me in a bewildered way I felt like I had betrayed him. I remembered myself as the fifteen -year-old he must have been expecting. I had never been skinny, but at fifteen I had been stick-straight, with braces and braids and a seriousness that often passed for mental maturity. Uncle Simon had often told me that I had “an old soul.” Apparently, I was no longer the cute “old soul” that he remembered.