If Semen Was Wishes Then Hookers Would Ride

When faced with the choice of sweet or savory, I almost always opt for the latter. I’m a slave to Doritos, Cheetos, and any other artificially orange corn-based chippy product. I don’t delve into the Dove bars to downplay my depression but rather cheese, pastas, and cured meats. However, on the birthday, pastries are mandatory, and thus my boyfriend, my limited schedule and I found ourselves face to face with some Betty Crocker cupcake mix and, por supuesto, some frosting.

I think money was the best kitchen supply ever invented; that is to say, when people have jobs they can go out to restaurants and food stores. However, there was something pulling at the strings of my heart and metaphorical apron, telling me to bake. The aging process, being abroad, etc. Mexico being home to myriad delectable and unbeatable comestibles caseros, I felt that if I were going to attempt a homemade version, it ought to be of the American variety; at least I’d be on familiar ground. The shame, I know, but whatever partially hydrogenated carginogen-laden pseudo-double-fudge-wanna-be that translucent bag inside that screaming scarlet box contains, when combined with three eggs, vegetable oil, and a bit of water, it becomes nothing short of tantalizing.

When three stores and two outdoor markets failed to have affordable cupcake molds, the engineer-in-training and I took to the drawing board and molded our own out of tinfoil. For those in developing nations and midwestern states where proper kitchen accoutrements are a little-found luxury, this is a brilliant idea: You are not restricted to the traditional dome shape but rather able to make cubes, rectangles, and huge Ls.

We kicked it up a notch by adding food coloring to the frosting, therefore adorning our original dometangles with heavenly pastel cake-up (neologistic collocation meaning make-up for cakes, obvi, Learned On The Job). The result was nothing short of some cracked-out chocolate bombs with Easter-esque tendencies that were fucking delicious. Happy birthday to me.

I will now discuss my boyfriend, specifically two things I love about him. The first is that whenever we eat something traditionally “American” he gets super excited and spouts forth for an hour about how amazing it is. This happened once when I made hamburgers, another time when we had bacon, and now with the cupcakes. I have a flashforward of him creaming his pants in the middle of Bleecker Street when he finally tries real pizza. I am not some culinary queen, and his constant affirmation that everything I touch becomes (delicious) is a nice part of our rapport. Perfect relationship: just add water (and eggs and vegetable oil).

Secondly, he too is a complete pervert. Contrary to what FHM, Maxim, and the other Mansmo equivalents say, men aren’t really that salacious, at least not in public. They blush just as much as Jane Doe when you bring up erections, wads shot, fluids exchanged…the who what where when why and especially how of sex. They lose eloquence. Ever read one of those ASK HIM columns, about what guys really want in bed? Lotta popsicles going on. Talk about Freudian. Back to the BF, he is equally as comfortable as I am bringing up taboo conversations topics and making utterly immature sexual associations i.e. “this tuna water looks just like lady juice” (clarification for the confused: tuna is a fruit here, begetting a translucent whitish water. I guess it looks kind of like the other tuna water as well but that’s a fucking disgusting comparison).

So when we were finally trying the cupcakes after I had my first I’M 25 AND OLD nervous breakdown of the early morning and he looked at me and said “If my semen tasted like this frosting, you would want to give me a blow job all the time” (2nd conditional –> highly improbable, LOTJ), it wasn’t the crudity of the statement that I was opposed to, but rather the sheer disillusion surrounding the idea.

Number One: I don’t know which No-Fun Nancy denied giving her homeboy a BJ, thus starting the rumor that straight sisters don’t enjoy giving head. Guys: Have you ever met a girl who really didn’t go down on you, especially if you reciprocated pre or post suckage? Ask any gay guy: The power of having a penis in your piehole is second to none. Plus it’s a hot, sexy thing to do, and generally results in penetration which begets orgasms for all players.

Number Two: Provided the gentleman in question keeps a balanced diet, the semen doesn’t really taste like anything. If your girlfriend is avoiding dome it’s probably because you, yourself, are foul, not because she’ a penis-shy pussy. I’d wager that semen tastes as good or bad as vaginal secretions, and relationships are about compromise.

Number Three: Do you understand how unproductive our society would become if semen tasted like frosting? Women love sweets. If a trip down the street to the bodega for our sugar fix was rendered unnecessary because we could just turn to our BF or husband or flavor of the night, nothing would ever get done. I can attest to this, as the BF camped out in my apartment for the days surrounding my cumpleanos. I tend to arrive 30 minutes early for every class I teach; last week I was tearing through the classroom door at three after the hour. I didn’t plan my lessons. I brought the wrong books. On the weekend, we didn’t get out of bed until well after lunch time. All of my emails still sit unopened in their little electronic files. And this was all with the semen tasting like semen!

Number Four: Forget the women. If semen tasted like frosting, men would clearly throw their backs out trying to suck themselves off. On the bright side, rib removal surgeries a la Marilyn (Manson, not Monroe) would soar and doctors could take long vacations dedicated to auto-stimulation.

Number Five: If semen tasted like frosting, we wouldn’t be able to make negative comparisons like: “Ugh, this pulque tastes like rancid semen and rotten strawberries.”

In conclusion, with the exception of the Betty Crocker cake mix, I’ve never been one for artificial sweeteners. Let’s call a spade a spade, let’s have semen taste like semen, and put our innovative ideas to something beneficial for society. And I really don’t know why he said that; he has nothing to complain about.

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