jane
Well-Known Member
This is your thread for posting food porn. No pictures. You gotta describe it in words.
This is my love letter to cheese:
Dear Cheese,
Since you came into my mouth, I have known no greater pleasure. The stronger your mouldy cologne, the more tantalising you are to me, and nothing -- nothing, I tell you -- can keep me from eating you. Sometimes I even forget to chew you, but with you, my dear cheese, no matter how intense your stench, with you, I always swallow. And so, truly, it must be love.
Who knew I would long to smear the biggest hole in my face with mould and beg for more? Who could predict that not even spore after spore of blue-green goo would not only not repel me, but would only endear you more? Melted, crumbled, grated, pureed, or simply hacked or scooped off a block or a wheel: you are, of all things, my truest love.
When you crawl up into a pastry shell, sweetened and cloaked in sugar and chocolate -- oh, my dear cheese, I could tell you how much I enjoy slathering my insides with your cannolicious goodness, but the ecstasy does not give me time to think. No, I am swept up by your luscious, creamy flood, and so, my dear, there simply isn't time. And when blanketed by little leaves of filigreed pastry, all warm and runny and buttery and tempting, I am lost for words, and I can only express myself by ramming you down my gullet and moaning -- bleating like the creature whose teats whence you were born. Won't you Sfogiatell-me you love me, too?
Sometimes, I see you before me, curled on a wooden block with your come-hither edible rind, and your aromatic innards, just begging to be ragaved, and I can't help but pounce, forgoing even the crackery companions -- true pleasure needs no bed, not even one made of crackers. And sometimes, you are so strong, my eyes bleed. That's when it's good: really, really good.
But cheese, I have one thing to ask of you. There are few times in my day during which I don't think of you, but it would help me greatly to pursue the other things in life (for, sadly, there must be other things), the things that bring me the money so that I can rescue you from those who do not appreciate you as I do, if you would stop following me around. You see, cheese, you have perched yourself on my buttocks, which now look so much like you, and it is highly distracting. Please, stop taunting me so. It is almost too much to bear. For, cheese, if you do not heed my words, I may some day eat my own ass. And, dearest heart, it will taste nothing like you, and may taint our perfect romance with assy badness.
Oh, cheese, won't you be mine -- all mine?
Love,
Jane
This is my love letter to cheese:
Dear Cheese,
Since you came into my mouth, I have known no greater pleasure. The stronger your mouldy cologne, the more tantalising you are to me, and nothing -- nothing, I tell you -- can keep me from eating you. Sometimes I even forget to chew you, but with you, my dear cheese, no matter how intense your stench, with you, I always swallow. And so, truly, it must be love.
Who knew I would long to smear the biggest hole in my face with mould and beg for more? Who could predict that not even spore after spore of blue-green goo would not only not repel me, but would only endear you more? Melted, crumbled, grated, pureed, or simply hacked or scooped off a block or a wheel: you are, of all things, my truest love.
When you crawl up into a pastry shell, sweetened and cloaked in sugar and chocolate -- oh, my dear cheese, I could tell you how much I enjoy slathering my insides with your cannolicious goodness, but the ecstasy does not give me time to think. No, I am swept up by your luscious, creamy flood, and so, my dear, there simply isn't time. And when blanketed by little leaves of filigreed pastry, all warm and runny and buttery and tempting, I am lost for words, and I can only express myself by ramming you down my gullet and moaning -- bleating like the creature whose teats whence you were born. Won't you Sfogiatell-me you love me, too?
Sometimes, I see you before me, curled on a wooden block with your come-hither edible rind, and your aromatic innards, just begging to be ragaved, and I can't help but pounce, forgoing even the crackery companions -- true pleasure needs no bed, not even one made of crackers. And sometimes, you are so strong, my eyes bleed. That's when it's good: really, really good.
But cheese, I have one thing to ask of you. There are few times in my day during which I don't think of you, but it would help me greatly to pursue the other things in life (for, sadly, there must be other things), the things that bring me the money so that I can rescue you from those who do not appreciate you as I do, if you would stop following me around. You see, cheese, you have perched yourself on my buttocks, which now look so much like you, and it is highly distracting. Please, stop taunting me so. It is almost too much to bear. For, cheese, if you do not heed my words, I may some day eat my own ass. And, dearest heart, it will taste nothing like you, and may taint our perfect romance with assy badness.
Oh, cheese, won't you be mine -- all mine?
Love,
Jane
