I shifted sensually beneath the sheets this morning, my entire body still a-tingle from some distant, hazy memory of the night before. Something new, something... illicit? Something soundly satisfying.
I yawned, and a delicious scent of previously unknown spices emanated from my mouth, filling the air.
With sticky fingers, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tried to recall what had been so dark, so urgent, so daring just a few hours earlier.
Rolling over lazily in the bed, I stretched out my legs and draped my arm across Cate Blanchett's pale, luminous skin. She murmured a contented sigh, and I...
Oh, what have I done?
Yes, I have crossed over.
There had been moments previously. A sly look. An innocent nibble. The furtive caress. The occasional salty lick, when nobody was looking.
But last night I went deep. True. Real.
I ate offal.
Without guilt, without disgust.
Openly, lusciously, I ate offal.
Wait. There was a male involved, a rooster, and I ate its cockscomb. Yes, I put a bird's secondary sexual characteristic in my mouth and chewed. It was good. It was gooey.
Well, basically it was a risotto of sorts made from that cockscomb and several duck tongues, probably both male and female. What a night!
Can you believe it? I did it willingly, and for someone who has had digestive issues for the past few days, it was a little bit of a challenge.
But I was not going to forego this challenge. I cowboyed up.
And you know what?
I'm doing it again.