Like the title says... |
Craving A Hot Dog The wind beats the leaves like blackboard brushes, shaking their pollen in a filmy dust on my window. All I can taste is onion from my afternoon dalliance with cockish meat, and I’m wondering how I managed to chew it, masticating it without thinking about what it was; mouth-watering and appealing, turned pungent and unsavoury. I prettied it up to mask the repellent reality of it; burnt-dandelion mustard and emerald-pearl relish to hide the pink beginnings and tubular ends. The onion lingers to taunt me; a hangover of the flesh, a reminder of my whorish gluttony. I wear it and exude it; it’s written on my face. I could brush it away, wash it away, but then, I’d have nothing to smile mischievously about. Most days I’m chaste with regard to meat. Though it tantalizes with its provocative scent and its lustful, salty spark to the virginal tongue, I keep a safe distance, only sampling when the mood overpowers my good senses. Wrapped in a white blanket of firm, yet delicate fleshiness, I can barely stand to be near it, without touching it. It always begins with a fervour: the first atomic taste with an overflow of flavour. It eggs me on, entrances me, until I lose focus, forgetting all the lessons and etiquette that a good girl puts into practice. When I’m done, I’m filled up and unable to think of consuming anymore. I’m done with meat, I think, but know that deep within, the longing will rear its head once more, when the time is right; the carnivorous compulsion will return. Though full, with a tired jaw, and with thick mustard crusting in the corners of my lips, I’m feeling a strange need for sweetness, for something more soothing than the frenetic, repetitive destruction of thrust and muscle. I need ice cream. |