Gustatory Masturbation: A Definition
Food. Its all you can think of. A night out, the realization of the uselessness, the standing on your own, people dancing mad all around you, and you just standing- mad. In the middle of it all. Simply mad. Food comes to mind again. You think it’s the alcohol, it makes you hungry you say, you think, you like to think. But what you forget is that you start the night thinking alcohol makes you excited, makes you want, you mind wanders, your body relaxes, your vagina throbs: alive and hungry. It need feeding. But you end the night telling yourself that you're hungry, simply hungry. Not making the simple connection of Alcohol - frustration - physical gratification - hunger. Your stomach being the target of your lack of attention, affection, your unsatisfied sexual hunger, your need to touch and be touched. You need to feel something, anything, because you weren’t successful in feeling at the end of the night. No one in your bed, no promise of a hand on the small of your bad, no teeth on your shoulder, no one to pull your hair, no one to touch you. No one. One of your senses needs to be stimulated, needs satisfaction, saturation. Food is the easiest, most obvious answer. Fill your stomach, fill it until you bloat and ache, until the aching takes over and dulls the throbbing. Gustatory masturbation: the act of gorging on food to numb the need of sexuality.
Gustatory Masturbation: A Story
She buys food for two, sometimes three or four. But never one. She buys food for two as if number two will materialize outside her door the 3rd, 4th, 5th time she opens it. Much like how we open the fridge, expecting a five course meal to materialize by magic, she buys food for two, opens the door and expects to be wanted.
She scans the living room and glimpses her future: a single sofa, two feet away from the 12" broken television, cradling dog-eared novels in the crook of its midget sofa arms. Local newspapers partially read and all the nights Good Intentions and I Will's shoved in the fridge along with that nights leftovers, exactly enough for one.
Recipe for Gustatory Masturbation : Ceviche
2lbs Red Snapper
1 small red onion
3 key limes
3 sour oranges
1 small hot chili
1 handful fresh Cilantro
Cut fish. Marinade in remainder of ingredients. Wait.
She buys fish for five. Two portions for each of them, one for her. She cuts the fish and hopes she has cut someone, left an unknown, unseen scar somewhere Out There. She cuts and hand squeezes each lemon and orange, minces the eye itching chili and lets marinade. And then she wonders. She wonders if anyone would return the favor, if anyone would sit and let fish marinade 3 hours for her, just so her taste buds could taste something new, just so she could fly to Peru on the tip of her tongue, close her eyes and taste the sea.
She waits and waits. One hour, two, three. She waits until she can't stand it anymore and then she opens the fridge and there it is. Beautiful, white, citrusy fish. Sharp. Acidic. Spicy. Everything she aims to be.
She ladles out four generous spoonfuls for them, two for her. She adds a bowl of the salad she made the other day in a fit of delusion that she might find a friend to share it with. She throws on eyeliner, blush, lip-gloss – her grand debut. Her Social Hour of the day, her One Last Hope, and she skips down the stairs of the complex, food in hand.
Its 11pm. They close in an hour. The store is busy. They smirk as they see her with arms full of food. She's tempted to turn back and run upstairs, to horde her food and eat it, eat it all, all alone and on the floor, floored by their disinterest, indifference, by their obvious lack of Her thoughts, thinking that people would care was a mistake, mistakenly believing that People wouldn't abandon her, that People are too nice to do that, too nice to know that she's sitting alone, bored and lonely, in the same complex where she lives and works, with no internet, no working television with only her thoughts and her books and herself.
She wants to run back up, up and away. She wants to surrender, to finally give up. But she's there and they see her, and it's just too late.
She sits on the sofa, a kitchen chair abducted and used as a table. She eats while reading, synchronized, calculated – indifferent. A lesson learned.
She wakes up, hunched over and freezing on the couch. It's eight in the morning and she's starving. Her fingers are stiff, her nose runny. Everything is shaky from sleeping, windows open and with no blanket in the cold Irish night. Her body tells her to raise and collapse onto her bed, wrap herself in blankets and just breathe. But her mind urges her body to rise and change only to find itself at a grocery store, planning dinner.
And then, she finds herself having to shove her hands in her pockets to keep them from attacking the aisles in the grocery store. Is it bad that deep down she didn't want to hold back? She wanted to let go, mouth foaming, eyes blazing, hands burning, heart dead, mind lost - blank, empty, clean, new. Let it out of her and onto the floor with the broken glass, spilled milk, goopy preserves - oozing, dripping, swooshing mess of everything turning into nothing, nothing recognizable. Recognizable, the word far too big for the feeling, the small, miniscule feeling with big, big consequences.
The feeling crawled and scratched its way through her throat; It lodged itself there and swelled. It moved to her fingers and she couldn't stand it. It filled her and she swelled up to the point of bursting. She wanted to hear the glass break, a climax that doesn't linger, only plunges. And then it came, the crash that sucked the breath out of her, leaving her panting, whimpering and alone. And while she walked to the counter she heard the pin dropping in her empty head telling her the moment had passed.
That night she prepared pork chops marinated in rosemary and garlic with caramelized pears and onions. She painted on the mandatory camouflage: eyeliner, blush, lip gloss. She slowly walked down the stairs, careful not to make a sound, not to tip off her presence. She waited at the top of the stairs, making sure they were both in the store, both busy and occupied. And then she glided down, toes first. She slid the plates onto the counter, just as their backs were turned, just when she'd be invisible, just as always.
Shiva Roofeh lives in Brooklyn, NY.