Read by Patsy Prince - full podcast here
I fell in love with him over pudding. Not dessert. I am not a woman who would eat a dessert. I would desert a dessert. I am a pudding woman. A woman who wields a spoon, not a fork. Forks can fork off.
Things had started well. He had chosen the pork terrine as a starter. A brave and bold choice. I like a man who isn’t afraid of a good bit of pork. He ate it with gusto. I smiled.
Then the pudding. Treacle tart with double cream and custard. I could almost hear his arteries tightening as he ate it. I felt bits of me tightening too. A beautiful home made treacle tart with pastry that melted and a golden granular filling that was as sweet as the first breath of spring air. I loved the fact that he had custard and cream. The off white of the cold cream spiralling in the warm yellow of the custard. I licked my lips.
From that moment I loved him.
I loved the way he ate. I loved the food he ate. I loved the way he cooked. I loved the way he moved.
And so food became the heart of our relationship. The axle round which we span. The solar body round which we orbited. The sparkling disco ball round which we danced. The roasting spit on which we rotated.
Food.
He was a fine looking man too.
His hair fell thickly like the tops of spring onions. He wore it long. Thick and strong with the odd curl and tuft. The colour of honey fresh from the hive.
He smelt of warm bread and samphire. Inviting and scrumptious. Invigorating but homely. Salty. Like he had stepped straight from the sea. A Poseidon of a man. I could have breathed his scent for eternity.
His lips were like morel cherries. Luscious and lascivious. The sweetness of their kisses was divine. I sucked their succulence. I basked in their caress.
His calves were shaped like ripe bursting corn on the cobs. Smooth and long. Firm and rounded. I ran my hands upwards over their mounds to his thighs. Oh his thighs! His thighs were large hocks of ham. Meaty. Powerful. Sculpted. I licked the curve of them.
He had a penis like a good, large, firm saucisson. A god of a penis. A mouthful and more. It was magnificent. Slick and slidey. Thick. Satisfying. And to brace with, buttocks as tight as two hard boiled eggs in a hanky. More than a handful a piece.
We had afternoon sex as hot as tien tsin chilli peppers – spicy and piquant. “Tea and sin indeed”, I said, as we sipped lapsing souchong and nibbled French fancies after some experimental positions that certainly gave us both an appetite.
When I touched him, as we lay there side by side, the hairs on his arm rose in expectation like pork crackling.
And when he rolled over, naked with his apricot skin, I watched his spine bulging like a broad bean case. The indents and nobbles undulating down his back. The rhythm of the movement as I ran my fingers down. Feeling the flow of his vertebrae. Counting them. The light down on his back.
And then as he held my hand, the half sphere of his wristbone like a roast chicken leg. The smooth cartilage. The flex of the joint. The firm flesh sitting upon the bone.
I stroked his head, his ears like a delicate oyster mushroom. Translucent. Quivering. Vulnerable. Soft downy peach hairs on the lobe.
Toes like fat juicy cannellini beans.
Skin shining like an olive pulled fresh from its marinade. Glistening. Inviting. Irresistible. Mouth watering.
*
That hot, hot day we had a picnic. Air like warm jam. A rug. A basket. Cold, crisp champagne. Like imbibing a crystal mountain stream. The smell of the jasmine, the lazy buzz of the bees. A spread worthy of kings. Smoked salmon. Lemon juice. Home made mayonnaise. Montego cheese with shallot slices. Rosemary and Maldon sea salt ciabatta. Its crust dusted. Its gaping soft insides like a cave mouth. The smooth and sharp all in a single mouthful. Butter with salt crystals that crunched and leaked their beguiling flavor in a golden flood through your mouth. He lay down beside me basking in the light like a ripe melon. I inhaled deeply and moved close. He fell asleep. He always slept so deeply.
I moved his jacket to place it under his head. I hadn’t expected to see the texts on his home screen.
A woman.
A woman offering him MERINGUE.
I am not a woman to take a meringue lying down.
Reader, I ate him.
It only started as a little nibble. But it was so delicious I did not stop. I did not stop because I could not stop. The trouble is when things taste THAT good it never stops with a little nibble does it? I can see you understand. And once you start, it would be wrong to leave anything wouldn’t it? I was always brought up to clear my plate. It’s only polite you see. Waste not want not.
And as I explained to the nice police lady, I wasn’t trying to destroy evidence! No, no, no! Nothing like that at all. I was just making stock. You should always use every single last scrap.
(c) Helen Morris, 2022
Helen Morris lives and works in Essex. She tries to find time to take the twisted stories out of her head and Arachne Press generously publish them. In between 3 sons and a batshit greyhound she swims in pools and lakes.
Patsy Prince trained at RADA and KCL. Recent film includes: The Bad Nun, Mummy Reborn and Culture Shock. Theatre includes: Voices from September 11th (Old Vic) and Swallows (OFS Theatre Oxford). She also co-hosted 'Open', a podcast on The Women's Radio Station. Patsy is an ex-lawyer, ex-parliamentary candidate and ex-hotelier, now excelling at being a bad wife, drinking too much gin and expanding her collection of millinery.
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