Once upon a time I posted this on Facebook . . .I know what you're thinking. "You had a dream about the sexiest man alive, Alton Brown of the Food Network's Cutthroat Kitchen and Iron Chef America and, formerly, Good Eats, and it didn't involve getting naked and rubbing each other down with lard?" And I say, "No. That's the dream with Paula Deen."
I had a ridiculously steamy dream about Alton Brown last night. Everyone remained clothed, but I was completely hot and bothered by a sexy display of good eats. This is probably the point int he Weight Watchers program no one talks about. The food–sex dream continuum.
This dream was even better. It involved me letting Alton put things in my mouth and watching the llamas chill on his veranda, as they do in dreams.
But this post isn't about llamas. It's about sex.
My dream was a sizzling, too-hot-for-network-TV number. I hit snooze—not once, but twice. There was enough heat to fire a brick oven. An oven in which Dream Alton made me a lascivious goat cheese and pheromone pizza and Dream Me clawed at Dream Alton. In short, I was acting like a cat in heat. A hungry cat. All yowls and stomach rumbles and rubbing up against things. The kind that would make love to a ferret if that ferret was also making smoky BBQ ribs.
It was a dream that was almost entirely about food. He was my Chef Christian Grey, a dominant man bent on feeding me in bites and licks until I melted like so much butter. Very little of it involved touching; it was tantric take-out.
Make no mistake, it was a sex dream, not a cooking class. There was flirting between tastes. There was near contact. There was desire—not only mine for a dangerously attractive souffle. Dream Alton was a tease; all come-hither cooking and almost-making-out. Trust me, Dream Me tried to seduce him. It was embarrassing.
It was delicious. It was disgusting. It was bizarre. More bizzare even than that business in Nine 1/2 Weeks when Mickey Rourke was still hot enough that Kim Basinger allowed him to empty an entire fridge-worth of food on her because who doesn't want to get busy with honey on their privates?
|Hot version of Mickey Rourke no longer available in stores.|
It was everything a sex dream should be. Something visceral stayed with me when I woke up. It's was with me for hours, flapping in my gut like self-destructive, tarted-up butterflies looking for a rare steak and a night without questions. It had me counting the hours until my husband and I might have a little chef and naughty sous-chef role-play.
I am aware of Mr. Brown's status as Not A Sex Symbol. I'm equally sure that I will have to add him to The List. The List, you may know, is what some spouses keep for use with a "Get Out of Monogamy Free" card. Previously, every line has been devoted to Matt Damon. I've cleared a spot for Dream Alton.
What the tarty butterflies are telling me is that this kind of dreamscape can be a tool for keeping the marital bed toasty, if full of crumbs. A good marriage is all about the long game. Your ardor is never going to resemble the early days of groin-tingling excitement that once drew you together. It's not likely you can raise a family and maintain the energy required for a night of desire.
That's good, though, because what's left after the flaming loins have been put out is a safe place. In a good marriage, fantasy can flourish. With a loving partner, where trust has trumped lust, it's okay to get your freak on. In fact, it may well be encouraged. Just leave the llamas out of it.
Tonight I will be cooking with gas, but it won't be in the kitchen. For the rest of you, I hope your Dream Alton brings the sugar and the spice.
*A version of this post originally appeared on my other site.