The book, “The Five Love Languages,” describes various ways in which human beings express love to one another. One of those “languages” being acts of service. Cooking for the one you love would quite neatly fall into that particular expression of affection and it ought, by it’s very nature, to spell seduction. No, really. It should.
Envision this: The kitchen full of steam, the scent of succulence undulating about the room like a nearly visible presence, A table set with tasteful simple linens, candles aglow. Perhaps the ambiance is enhanced by the strains of subtle music playing, the sort that implies erotic intent.
Can any modern woman resist the idea of a man cooking for her? He, be-aproned (ok, so it’s not a great word, but you get the idea), mastering this culinary domain and its edible progeny like a contemporary explorer taming the wilds of a previously unexplored territory. Magnificent!
For the sake of our fantasy, ignore the sweat running down his temples and the ever escalating state of agitation which has him firmly in its grip. So too, must you forgive the occasional expletive uttered in a stifled roar as his tender hand comes into contact with the super heated interior of the oven door, or his devastation when the dog stands on hind legs to lick the joint he has so carefully been basting these many tense egg-timered minutes. Pretend you have no idea what the dog was licking just moments before her tongue came into contact with that beautifully braised beef. Simply raise your glass of wine, smile sweetly and hike your skirt a tad higher so that the tops of your stockings are just visible. Laugh throatily as you toss your shining locks with gamine panache. Wink.
By all means, throw up an artful smoke screen of subtle flattery, “Have you been working out? Your pecs look so well defined in that apron” (don’t say a word, I’m talking about cooking here, all the rest is just filler), and lest he allow the mounting panic of multiple dishes and their various nuances to overwhelm him, begin to unbutton your nearly transparent blouse as you innocently ask, “Is there anything I can do?” If you’re unfamiliar with the act, practice the “girlish titter;” a 1949 edition of “The Family Circle” promised great things could be accomplished through judicious use of the ultra feminine titter.
And remember, there is a fine line in the bachelor kitchen over which you must not step ladies, trust me on this. No matter how sexy you are or think you are, or think your man thinks you are, bear this in mind. As the meal reaches a crescendo of finely timed perfection (or not), it may be unwise to attempt physical contact with the chef. Many a delightful romance, not to mention a fastidiously crafted feast, has been destroyed by the introduction of a prematurely administered feminine hug just as the souffle like substance her man is fussing over comes out of the oven. Shocking, simply shocking what can transpire amongst previously civilised human beings when one’s bouillabaisse bites the big one!
Focus instead, as you sip your claret or chardonnay, upon the heartfelt sentiment his effort struggles to convey. See not the heavily perspiring man swearing in Ramsayesque abandon. No. See instead your own personal Lothario, intent on your artful seduction, preparing to pamper you with delectable delicacies prepared by his own skilled hand. Imagine him offering you tender tid bits as you allow your stiletto heel to slip unceremoniously to the floor, your toes sliding with silky ease up his trouser leg. Envision the coquettish tilt of your own head as his lips draw near.
And should your musings be interrupted by the crash of hot trays hitting the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of male sobbing, be prepared with both the fire extinguisher and the fire starter. Few men will be able to resist when you sink gracefully to your stocking clad knees, eyes fixed on his as you say, “Oh, good! I’m not hungry anyway. All I really want is to give you a blow job.”
After all, one act of service deserves another. Don’t you think?
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