Food and sex go way back. In Genesis, the serpent seduces Eve, getting her to eat the eternal life-ending apple. See Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,” Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and Nicki Minaj’s “Truffle Butter.” Watch the episode of Seinfeld where George downs a hoagie while getting busy or 9½ Weeks when Mickey Rourke essentially stuffs Kim Basinger’s fridge in her mouth. When my brother was a resident, working in the ER, he had all kinds of stories about women coming in to get food out of their cooch. Tune into any episode of Sex Sent Me to the ER on TLC and you’ll see it in all its reenacted glory.

The Learning Channel has stories. The internet has mad tips. Search “Inserting food in genitalia” and you’ll find a Women’s Health article titled, “How to Safely Use Food During Foreplay.” You have questions, the internet has answers. “Is it dangerous to insert food, such as spaghetti?”
The question didn’t specify marinara or carbonara.

I’m all about doing what you need to do to get done, but this is weird. Still, when I’m trying to understand what turns people on, I force myself to think about what makes something hot for some people. In this case, so hot you’re willing to risk infections or some kind of reverse acid reflux. As is true of all things sexual, there’s a power dynamic behind it and, for fornifoodies, likely an extension of our fascination with consuming and being consumed. I’m going to go ahead and call it capitalist, even. Investment in something, ownership (super-literal ownership) of said something.

So, I’ve theorized it. I still have basic questions. Who chooses the food? The insertee? The partner? How does one go about choosing the food? Do you only pick your favorite foods? Foods you loathe so much you’ve got to defile them? Organic? Farm to table?

I’m no foodie. I like Taco Bell way too much and aiolis kind of scare me. My favorite food is my mom’s fried chicken and I really hate green peppers. Whole Foods is too expensive.

The boudoir buffet ain’t going to happen.

And I’ll go ahead and say that the business where people get it on with things like baseball bats ain’t going to happen, either.

Ah, boundaries.

Last week, I finally submitted to my curiosity and watched 50 Shades of Grey. (Shh. Don’t tell anybody.) I remember when the movie came out and people were all upset about the scene where Jamie Dornan, with his open palm, whups on Dakota Johnson’s ass for a good 90 seconds, but not at all upset when, in an earlier scene, he whips her.

Strip all of this down to bare bones: We’ve all got a bar and we know where it’s at. Sometimes the bar holds bleu cheese olives.

Future partners, I may someday try the George Constanza and order some Jimmy John’s and stash it in the nightstand before you come over. I’m always hungry.

This article appears in Jun 11-17, 2015.