Sex and Bacon (5 page)

“I’m clean,” I’d say to a potential sexual partner. “Are you?” I’d look in their eyes. I didn’t fuck the ones I didn’t trust to give me a true answer. I let myself be vulnerable to the ones I trusted, allowing them to take my life in their hands.

And I
was
clean—I got tested every six months, like clockwork. It was Lotto-rare when a chosen partner balked any further, despite all our social conditioning. I gleefully continued to evade condom use privately while publicly espousing only the safest of possible sex acts. I was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: virtuous and upright in the company of other safesex aficionados, and dangerously depraved in secret.

I learned to orgasm, clenching my muscles and then releasing them with a
whoosh!
when I felt a male partner coming inside me. Afterward, I’d feel satisfied, primal. It was a feeling I did not get when denied my partner’s sexual fluids. Likewise, a woman’s bare hand in my cunt was different than a latexed one: A bare hand could reach up inside me all the way to my heart. I learned to let myself open up, to feel afraid, to take the leap, to trust.

The condoms and dental dams and gloves in my bedroom grew brittle and dusty, taking up the valuable space I preferred to fill with water-based lubricant, toys, and packets of Ortho-Novum
7/7/7
. Eventually, I threw all my latex fashion accessories away. I was an outlaw in the company of other outlaws. And that felt pretty good.

I’ve never had any STDs. Not even a single cold sore. I’ve never been pregnant, either. The only thing I have to show for my years of promiscuity is a broken hymen and a slightly battered heart, two old friends living together in close proximity.

Of course, after twenty years of having sex with a slew of different partners and for a variety of different reasons—some of them good, and some of them pretty piss-poor, if you want to know the truth—there are a few fucks I wish I could take back. And the more I think of fucks I wish I could take back, the more names and faces pop up in my brain. It’s daunting, all right.

But who am I trying to kid? My whole life has been an “experimental “ phase, both sexually and culmarily speaking. I’ve put some fucked-up shit in my mouth, for sure. It’s just that I’m less afraid of getting my heart broken or suffering the consequences of a bad erotic choice than I am of not taking every chance I can on love, deliciousness, honesty, and Vulcan mind-meldmg sex. I don’t want to live in fear. I want to live boldly and with as much love and desire as the world sees fit to offer me.

I’ve had my slutty phases, but I’m pretty conservative these days, if you want to know the truth.

I’m monogamous, devoutly in love with a man I fucked on the first date with no condom, because I trusted him when he said he’d been tested a few months ago, and because I wasn’t lying when I said I had too.

I fucked him without a condom because I wanted to feel him inside me without any boundaries or reserve. Because his hands on me were right. Because his tongue in my mouth was heaven. Because the taste of his sweat burned me to ashes, from which I rose again—brand new, pure, and changed. Since then, every time we fuck my love is transformed, evolving into something deeper in the crucible of my little bed.

And yes, it is unsafe.

Yes, an act that sacred, that pleasurable, might hurt you. If done wrong, or with the wrong person, that act can kill. One mistake and you’re dead,
bang bang
—if there’s anything I learned from all the pretty girls solemnly handing out condoms in ninth grade homeroom, it’s that. One ill-considered fuck equals you’re dead.
Treat every person as if they’re infected. AIDS kills
. Ireallywas paying attention. And I don’t take any of that lightly, nor do I have anything but respect for people who choose to use condoms, gloves, plastic wrap, and dams when they fuck. People living with HIV (or other systemic diseases like hepatitis C or herpes) don’t have the luxury of the kind of choices I get to make, and I am deeply conscious of my privilege. I’ve been lucky—really lucky—while other people have gambled everything and suffered annihilating loss.

But I’ve always believed that true delight is worth some risk, whether it’s a wild gustatory fracas of fried meat and fat and salt, or whether it’s an act looked down upon by people who prefer to ignore the holy communion that occurs when two people share their bodies with each other in every aspect.

It’s a continual balancing act, weighing joy against fear. Do we play it safe and take the sure bet, living carefully and treating our bodies like fragile, easily broken glass, or sometimes—maybe only once in a great while—do we throw caution and good sense to the wind and revel in the taste of flesh between our teeth?

I have eaten well in my life, and I have loved well, and I will joyfully do every bit of it again, over and over, until I am wholly consumed—burned to ash by sheer bliss.

MOULES MARINI`RE

MUSSELS ARE GOOD BECAUSE THEY’RE SUPEREASY TO MAKE
and fun to eat, and it’s kind of romantic and messy and garlicky to share a bowl and sop up the mussel broth with big torn shards of bread. You must drink lots and lots of wine, and for dessert it’s very nice to have a small amount of high-quality chocolate
¹
to share afterward.

Here’s what you do for the mussels:

Go to your fishmonger. If you’re a hot girl, dress cute and prepare to flirt. I don’t care if you’re gay—access to prime seafood trumps sexual preference any day. You are creating a relationship with someone who is very, very important. Know his name, greet him, ask him what’s good. Make friends with him! Your fishmonger will make the difference between
meh
fish and
holy shit, that’s good!
fish.

Ask him for a couple pounds of fresh, live mussels. Flirt now! Flirt flirt flirt! Because you have to ask him to go through his mussels, and to only give you the ones that are vibrantly alive. You’re asking him to individually sort them for your princessy ass, and that’s a big favor. So be sweet about it. If you are ingratiating enough, you will be rewarded with a few pounds of mussels that are healthy and ready to be cooked. If you’re a dick about it, he’ll just throw them into your package, and you’ll have a bunch of dead mussels that are only good to be thrown out. Be nice! If he’s busy, come back. Because he’s well within his rights to just give you however many pounds of mussels you ask for, dead and alive.

Once you have your two pounds of fresh, live mussels, take them home and put them into a big mixing bowl. Fill the bowl with an inch or two of water, then wet a cloth towel and put that over the bowl. Refrigerate the bowl with the cloth over it—this will keep the mussels comfortable and alive until you’re ready to cook them.

Okay, so fast-forward to when you’re ready to make your mussels. It’s best if you have a hot boy or girl to cook for, because they’re gonna be all impressed with you and will want to fuck you afterward (especially if you tell them to bring wine and then have them sit and talk and drink with you while you cook).

Now it’s time to sort the mussels. Put the bowl of refrigerated mussels in your sink and run cold water next to the bowl.

Now take out a mussel and look at it. It should be closed tight, or just barely open a sliver. Ones that are open are dead. Throw them out. Also throw out any mussels with cracked shells, or if the mussel part is protruding out of the shell, or if anything just seems weird or wrong or gives you a bad vibe. Wash the healthy ones under the cold water really, really well. You can use a little brush, but I normally just use my fingertips to get all the sand off. It’s okay if the cold water makes them open or close a bit—they’re living creatures, responsive to temperature change. This is good.

You will notice on the side of the mussel a little tuft of what looks like seaweed or, um . . . what else does it look like? Well, actually, kind of like
pubes
. I know this is gross—hang on, though. Rip off the wiry hairs (they should come off easily, in one tangled clump). This is called
bearding
the mussels. This sounds weird and gross but it’s totally not. You’re simply removing their little beards because you don’t want to be eating that. I keep a paring knife handy for stubborn beard strands that just won’t tear off.

Put all your washed, bearded mussels into a clean mixing bowl. Cover them with the damp towel and pop them back in the fridge.

Now:
The hard part is done. Dinner’s going to come together really fast at this point, so give your guest a loaf of good bread (I like sourdough, but a good rosemary bread is nice too) and a cutting board and have him or her slice the loaf into thick crusty pieces. Drink more wine.

Into a stockpot or very large, high-sided skillet, place three or four small, chopped shallots.
(Not
onions—onions aren’t right. It really does need to be shallots.)

Chop up a bunch of fresh garlic and toss that in too. Throw in half a stick of butter (not margarine,
never ever ever
, no matter what). If you’re feeling fancy, you can cook some strips of bacon ahead of time and use the bacon fat instead of butter, crumbling the cooked bacon in with the shallots and garlic, but whatevs.

Heat the shallots, garlic, and butter over medium heat. Put the lid on. You are sweating the shallots, not sauteeing them. That basically means you’re cooking them to translucency but not browning them. Shake the pot around a bit while you’re sweating the shallots, so they don’t stick and so the butter distributes.

Throw in herbs: dill, thyme, rosemary, freshly ground black pepper. Use bunches and bunches of each.

Once your shallots are almost clear and soft, pour in
either
a few glasses of white wine
or
a few bottles of some kind of lager. (Like Foster’s—a lightish beer. Don’t use a dark one like Guinness. Budweiser and other American canned beers are actually fine for this.) Heat until the liquid is simmering. Then simmer awhile, leaving the lid off so the steam can escape. You’re cooking the beer or wine down and allowing the alcohol to evaporate, leaving only the condensed flavor of the liquid. Have more wine. At this point your kitchen should be smelling incredibly good.

Now take the mussels out of the fridge and dump them into the simmering liquid. The liquid won’t cover the mussels—it should only be a few inches in the bottom of the pot. Cover the pot with the lid, and leave it alone for five minutes.

After five minutes pull the pot off the heat. With the lid still on, shake the pot around. Peek in. Make sure the mussels have opened. If a bunch of them haven’t, put the lid on and put the pot back on the heat for a minute more. Literally
a
minute.

Mussels cook fast, and you don’t want to overcook them. The ones that still don’t open are dead, and no amount of cooking will make them open.

Now pour the mussels and broth into a big bowl. Get a smaller bowl for the discarded shells. Put plenty of napkins on the table and a fork for each of you.

Now eat the fuck out of those amazing, delicious mussels, you fine-ass cook, you. Lick your fingers and sop up the broth with lots and lots of bread. Your whole house will smell like garlic and herbs and good, fresh shellfish, and your neighbors will fucking die and wish to God they were over at your place eating whatever it is you just made.

Afterward, drink more wine and eat some room temperature chocolate.

Fall asleep full of good food. You may be too full to fuck, but amazingly enough, this will be totally okay. Sometimes your food fucks you so well that getting touched by another person is completely, blissfully beside the point.

1.
Keep your chocolate at room temperature, otherwise the texture will be all off. If you’re going to eat cold chocolate, you may as well be eating a block of brown wax. In the summer you can store your chocolate in the refrigerator, but pull it out before you start cooking the main meal and it will be buttery and melty and ready to eat by dessert time.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS, AND I’M NOT ASHAMED OF IT.