Every Time My Hair Gets Pulled In The Bedroom, I End Up In The Kitchen Making French Cooking
How many times has this happened to you? Things are getting a little hot and heavy in the boudoir, and you tell your current partner it’s okay if they want to get a little rough with you. So they grab a fistful of your hair and the next thing you know? You’ve transitioned into the kitchen and you’re cooking up a delicious pot of beef Bourguignon with them still inside you or vice versa! If you’re anything like me, this is what you live with and quite frankly, it sucks.
It’s so embarrassing! And it doesn’t even matter what I do to try and mitigate it because it just keeps happening. I stopped buying deli ham and cheese, and yet somehow every time I swipe right on some cutie who likes it a little rowdy, all of a sudden I’m making them a perfect croque monsieur when I ought to be making them a croque “moan”-sieur instead.
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Even worse? Doctors can’t tell me what’s wrong with me. My general practitioner says it’s psychosomatic, which is like, so not helpful. I did managed to unpack some of it with my psychiatrist, who suspects that my sexual awakening coinciding with the release of a certain animated feature starring Patton Oswalt as a dominant-yet-nurturing rat might have arrested my development a bit, but I can’t say any more about that since Pixar won’t stop threatening legal action every time I talk about making ratatouille instead of just letting someone rata-do-me. I just can’t help it!
My great-aunt Gladice always said I’d never amount to anything in the kitchen so I suppose I should be thankful. But as excited as I am to wipe the smug smile off the face of that amused douche when I make an amuse-bouche, my love life is really suffering! I mean, who cares about making a perfect duck confit when you started your night thinking about making some fuck cum feats.
And even when I really hit it off with someone, this little “issue” of mine becomes a huge problem. Nowadays I’m too self-conscious to text the eggplant emoji followed by the red-faced panting guy, my lover shows up expecting a gourmet stuffed aubergine with just the right amount of heat on it. I mean, come on!
Unless I can find a way to fix this little problem, I might have to put my love life on a permanent hiatus. Or find a way to bribe the Department of Public Health to look the other way as I create a very unique Michelin-starred concept. I’m open to either honestly—what can I say? I’m kind of an exhibitionist at heart.