Too Full To Fuck

It is one of life's harsh realities that whenever I go out to eat for Valentine's Day, my mate of the moment (yes, the tradition predates my husband) and I always return home stuffed to the brink of explosion. My friend Miriam earlier pointed out that she would sooner forgo the fancy dinner aspect of V.D. (opting instead for a quick Thai meal with her boyfriend and some strippers/Mexican wrestling after), as the fancier places are quite often filled with "sappy, smiling couples."

Obviously she has never seen me and my husband at the trough at a fancy restaurant.

The evening starts out decently enough. We are seated, order wine (generally red) or a "signature cocktail". If we order different things, we discreetly trade sips. Then the dinner order is placed, after much deliberation, as I find it hard to commit to anything other than marriage. Prix fixe or a la carte, it doesn't matter-- whichever shows the most promise. We acknowledge that it's probably too much, but oh well... it's a special occasion! We munch daintily on bread; then, the amuses-bouches arrive. After the requisite feigning of surprise ("Oh, what a treat! Free stuff rules!"), the artfully-arranged morsels are popped into our mouths, and our lips smack in glee at the promise of things to come.

First course arrives. Shovel into mouth, crunch crunch, yum yum. Second course arrives; lather, rinse, REPEAT. At this point our eyes begin to glaze over and one of us will undoubtedly exclaim, "Wow, I think I'm a little full!" Gastrointestinal comfort and niceties, however, don't really hold much stock at our romantic dinner for two, and it is quite apparent to any casual observer that sappy smiles and googly eyes have no place at our table. Unless, of course, they pertain to nausea.

So, with the delicacy of wolves, on we proceed to the third course. After its perfunctory decimation, it is only then that there is time for smiles. Mouths half open, eyelids at half mast, smiles that say as much about the condition of our stomachs (painfully engorged) as they do about the quality of our meal (absolutely exquisite).

Needless to say, the last thing we want to do after this debacle is fuck. We arrive at home, staggering through the apartment with vacant stares; a little buzzed, a little sleepy, our tongues still warm with the memories of what we so wantonly shoved down our respective hatches a mere hour or so ago. Putting the remnants of pre-dinner lustful thoughts out to pasture, we amble off to bed, painfully sated. And it is here, facing away from each other in conjoined discomfort, that we most experience the pleasure/pain dichotomy of love, a sensation that will endure at least until the next bowel movement.