I watch the way men eat. I mean, some men are simply disgusting: they chew loudly, swaying their thick lips to and fro and sideways, barely holding the juices in their hooves, their pupils dilated, their teeth slowly sinking into blue, rare flesh with no remorse — these men are hot!
Think about it. Men fuck they way they eat. No, I didn't read this in any research journal; my partner and I thought of it over the kitchen table, eating. I grew up around simmering cazuelas, oregano, the sting of cumin, the fragrance of cilantro and dollops of gossip, a world before that crop of TV physicians pronounced anything edible a drug or a psychological crutch, before pious, vegan people told me not to eat what I wasn’t ready to kill (I was ready to shoot one of them, but I probably wouldn’t eat their sorry gristle because I like my asses meaty). It was a world layered thick with the estrogen butter of women now imitated by the Nigellas, Marthas, and Rachel Rays in the current harem of foodies.
My favourite troglodytes chew a sandwich open-legged, in their Dickies, in between shifts at construction sites, between garbage pickups, after putting out fires, or while closing dubious deals with the tip of their index like a firing pin. The horror. Once they’re done, they belch and light up. Think about it. Men fuck they way they eat. And this, grabbing, prodding, peeling, suckering, slurping, swallowing and belching should be one of the key ways to approach safer sex, that is the strange connection, the anthropological stretch if you will, like the Mediterranean diet for obesity, get them in their natural habitat, get me at their most revealing, not when they are about to fuck, then it’s way too late.
Men and their eating are revelatory, they cover the gamut. I see them downtown with their prissy belts and slick jackets — tight, everything tight — chewing anxiously on the corner of an energy bar, sipping herbal decaf like señoritas. Shudder! Bunch of prim bottoms is what they are. The little rodent snacking is a dead giveaway.
I've seen men self-consciously gnawing on things suspiciously similar to what their accessory pets eat (or is it their pet they are nibbling?) I see Middle Eastern men slithering thick tongues into shawarmas as if they were live organs and leaking savory tahini and amba from their thick whiskers.
Which kind of man do you prefer? How do you eat? What do you eat? Do you indulge in Szechuan restaurants where the food is spicy and a bit slimy and your dinner companions are careful but slightly ravenous? Reminds me of partying and bathhouses after two in the morning. Or are you more into the greasy joints where skateboarders devour sloppy trans fat in Styrofoam, not concerned about tomorrow?
At grocery stores and local food markets, I like to savour the inexpensive foreplay leading to cooking and eating. Get a whiff of what he’ll be cooking, and how he will eat it: simply check out his basket when he’s waiting in line. I’m mesmerized at the Safeway, Sobeys and No Frills supermarkets across the country, second only to public transportation. This is where you can see the whole Canadian family, and I zero in on the portentous daddy gruffly stomping his CAT boots down the aisles to provide for his woman, his mistress, or his bitch on the downlow, fondling the fruit and selecting the Shake ’n Bake. Grocery shopping for eating is real, untrammeled by the ego that gets robbed in clothing stores. In your local supermarket, the foreplay is real—selecting the very stuff that will end up in their bellies.
I watch men at eateries, the mid to late twenties patrons of metrosexual persuasion, James Blunt sexy, limber and lanky but somewhat preoccupied with offending and with early onset prudishness about eating things they are not prepared to kill; those make for finicky eaters. Recently, while dining at a trendy cantina, I saw a starving, young boy's eyes languidly follow his boyfriend's handling of a piece of meat as if it would vanish if he held it too firmly. The truth must be told that I have little patience for affected eating habits. I grew up in a generation where licking one's fingers was a seductive prelude to trouble — not a reason to break up over unsanitary habits. One bitter tongue would say that I learned the five-second rule in a bathhouse. I say, ¡el cuerpo pide salsa! Throughout my years of living with HIV, the echo of this cruel Chilean Catholic folklore maxim has incessantly repeated in my head: “como pecas pagas”, roughly translated as “how you sin, you pay.” It’s diligently applied if a smoker one knows gets lung cancer, or if the queer of the hood gets anal cancer. Ah. The lovely thoughts of my Chilean ilk.
How we eat might contain all kinds of clues about how we sin. Watch out for those who treat their food as if they are surgeons, priests, or detectives. If they look at it with detachment, take it apart like one dismantles a gadget, or ritualize every neck-craning from the plate to their tight lips as if it were a sacred wafer (not the warm, oily spring roll you like), you might get some wholesome feeding but no seduction. If he insists on washing his hands and flossing between courses, and never burps his contentment, you might be in for impeccable manners and little satisfaction. Certainly, such men will never suffer Montezuma's Revenge, or get any infections, but lo comido y lo bailado no me lo quita nadie, Chileans say — what one drinks and eats no one can take away from you; it refers to having had fun in your life, no matter what.
Call me shallow, but isn’t there something about men eating with some abandon and ferocity that is arousing? See them devouring MSG at the Chinese spots and our slightly irked policemen swallowing cliché donuts at some Tim Horton's. The action gets into full swing in those locales where you have to take your meal as well as your destiny in your hands, in the form of a burrito or shishkabob. And as to why I am obsessed with eating manners, there is a number of reasons; my lovely partners Phillip Barden ate consumed by cryptosporidium in 1993, one of the deadly parasites a body immune-depressed by HIV could not fight off, he probably got the protozoan eating ass, yup of the other reasons I am obsessed with eating. In a straight world a great deal is made out of cunnilingus, and certainly eating ass deserves the same praises, clean, squeaky clean, shave, tender ass. If the idea makes you woozy, remember the maxim, “por donde pecas pagas”, the way you sin, you pay – we all have it coming to us, parasites, high cholesterol, diabetes – for our gluttony.
How do I eat? In private, I have no manners. I learned to eat in the kitchen — standing, sneaky, fast, rapacious, and slightly predatory. I see nothing wrong with talking while chewing a handful of something deep-fried, gooey, and a bit tart that sticks to my buds. Whatever table manners I have, whatever acquired tastes for exotic edibles, were imparted to me during adolescence by older, gay gourmandise — silly Chilean notions of upper-class manners just to pass as chaste in public. I recall good manners temporarily in job interviews that require sharing a meal with prospective employers. But when left to my own devices, I’m a survivor, an equal-opportunity eater. I will catch anything with a pulse and devour it. I have feasted on more swimmer, hockey player, and cyclist ass than any diet program can fit into their fastidious point scales, and yes, I’ve had parasites lingering for months. Lesson learned: how you sin, you pay. But, on some days, when served on a silver platter, one has to choose sustenance over manners and safety.