The Eroticism of Meat

aka gnawing on Jesus's thigh bone for the flesh blessed thrill...

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There’s a picture of a steak on my vision board. Sometimes I glance at it abashed, or, at other times, stare at it unapologetic and hungry. I mean, after all, I did place it there purposefully. For some reason, maybe age, post-menopausal fuck it, or simply just because, I’ve been desiring to sink my teeth into a steak for several months now. As a vegetarian, ok, read pescetarian if being so contrary, for the last forty years, the picture, torn from a magazine back in January and now hanging brazenly on my bedroom wall of all places, has become my porn. The steak image itself? The cum shot.

I've been watching cannibal movies recently. Late at night. Those controversial, banned at the time, 70s cannibal movies, where the natives were stereotyped like fuck, and the ‘white man’, unsurprisingly, was the biggest dickhead to ever exist, that you wanted him to get eaten long before he actually does. Entrails endlessly pulled from abdomens. Cocks cut and blood drunk from animal skull cups. Limbs torn and eyes gouged. It’s nasty stuff and makes me turn my nose up in disgust.

Let’s clear something up.

I don't want to eat another human. At least I don't think so. Not raw flesh. It's got to be cooked good. Well done. Firm. Tough. I wander around the fresh meat produce aisle in Aldi and I have to look away. It’s disgusting. Fuck cooking my own meat; that’s not my style.

I think about pigeons. City pigeons. City pigeons eating Kentucky Fried Chicken debris, leftovers in Polystyrene boxes, coated in ketchup blood. Their deep-fried relatives. Cannibal birds. Though admittedly it doesn’t look good on them. They do look deranged on that diet. Slightly mad.

I’m not going mad.

I just apparently want to eat meat again.

What if this longing to eat meat is like the longing to sink my teeth into my lover’s flesh?

I like biting into my lover. My teeth closing around his shoulder, forearm, neck. Lip. I bite his lip and draw blood. It tastes salty.

I used to love my lover going down on me when I bled between my legs. The smell of iron. His face after eating me, marked by me. I would feel like a warrioress, something Amazonian, a queen. Don’t forget who you’re serving now boy, would ring through my mind. Well, maybe it didn’t then, but it does now.

I cannot be alone in, and of a certain generation, that read that part of Erica Jong’s ‘Fear of Flying’ whereby she talks about, and in great literary descriptive imagery, of a weekend with her lover enjoying her whilst she was on her period. That was wild to me then, a child of the 80s, reading this in my twenties. Innocent. Unembodied. Disempowered from my womanhood. There was none of that talk out there at that time for us women. It was Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’, and Nancy Friday’s ‘The Secret Garden’, and very little else. Discovering Ms Jong’s books was a naughty and liberating revelation. Like discovering Danielle Steele and all those Lace books etc. It’s why I still adore ‘Sex and the City’. The original series, not this ‘And Just Like Crap’ bullshittery. It educated us women who were curious and open, slutty and sexual, who did not know where to turn to understand the complexity of our animal, body lusting, human desires more. There was only so much that those photomontages in Jackie magazine could teach us.

Carnal desires. Bloody flesh. Eating out. Going down. Reaching up to the top shelf. Pointing to that joint at the butchers. Slathering over the meat house menu. Hunger. Animal appetites. Squatting down upon one’s haunches and gnawing upon a bone.

I recall gnawing on my own forearm at some point in the last decade. It was on a retreat where we were calling in the spirit of crone. I felt hen like. Arse sticking out. Feathered and hag-like. Strutting and squatting and desiring to gnaw on fleshy bone. It was feral and non-verbal and real and not pretty and pretty hot too. For my soul that is.

Cut to about eight years later, and I'm sat around my dining table at a dinner party chez moi, gnawing on a jerk chicken bone, and I can't get enough. This was two Saturdays ago. I’m newly outing myself, tempting you too towards the dark side. The meat side. The flesh side.

A few nights ago, yep, I’m nothing but consistently curious when I want to be folks, I cooked a bloody tuna steak in my kitchen. I’d picked it up from the supermarket because it looked bloody and dark and red. It looked like meat, but not quite the four-legged land animal kind.

It feels devilish (funnily enough that was the card I pulled from my Tarot deck this morning) and makes me think about that time I travelled around Argentina, the land of steak and piles of meat stacked upon plates with just some bread and red wine to mop it all up with. That was a waste. I ate frozen pizza and pasta because there was fuck all else to put in your mouth, if you were veggie back then, other than Argentinian gypsy men. But that’s a tale for another time.

I raise my glass of red wine, Malbec, to take a sip, and I feel European. Dark red stained lips. Perfect hair. Pointed tits and angled hips. Skin oiled by sunshine and olives. Eyes like almonds.

I'm turning carnivorous. Like in that Sinbad film with Jane Seymour when the prince had been turned into an ape and they had to find the antidote before this particular enchantment stuck.

I now have that phrase, ‘the erotic is the antidote to death’ in my head. The Esther Perel one. And for a moment it all makes sense. Meat and flesh and wine and desire and here I am, praying to come to, or is that for, Jesus, in my living room.

The body of Jesus. Am I gnawing on his body? Does he like being eaten too?

To be fair, I’m only taking a few bites. Not too much. That’s enough for me right now. Mini bites. Mini meat. Just a nibble on Jesus. A tease of flesh. A taste of something forbidden.

A few weeks ago, I ate meat on a tiny stick at a sweet Japanese izakaya. Izakaya are a spot to grab a drink, settle in, and get comfortable at. Mini restaurants. Perfect for getting off on mini meats. Sounds about right, other than the fact that this was seeped in the sombre souring of the ending of a relationship. So, there were tears mixed in too, alongside the cocktails, and the food. It was my first day of eating meat again. Earlier I’d taken a few bites, mini bites remember, of his chicken burrito. No, that’s not a euphemism my dears. Now I’d spotted beef with garlic and spring onion on a little stick on the menu. It was fucking delicious. Meat on a stick. Jesus on the cross.

Go figure.

As a side note, and talking of notes, I was bemused and amused to think of that episode of SATC whereby Carrie gets broken up with by Berger on a post it note. By the end of the episode, Carrie had got out of being arrested for smoking pot when she flashed that note to the cop. And, stoned, giggly, and getting stuck into an ice-cream sundae late-night munchie, she announces that ‘this is no longer the day I got broken up with by a post it note. It’s now the day I nearly got arrested for smoking a doobie.’ Same girl. Except this was no longer the day I ended a relationship, but the day I ate meat for the first time in forty years.

This attraction to meat is an erotic thing it seems. A casual encounter not to be planned beforehand. It’s a lust for and a holy hunger of being more unkempt and unseeming towards the baseline of flesh in my mouth satiations. Something to chew upon. To use my canines for. I’m a dog in heat, a bitch with a slab of meat.

Well. Maybe not a slab. Not yet. Just mini steaks for this vampire in training for now.

And I wonder. As I do. Whether there’s a parallel with the no fucks given I’m leaning more into with writing from my erotic flesh.

I’m feeling freer. More daring. More curious. More personally inclined to rip my teeth into the marrow of desire’s magic. Perhaps this meat-eating part of me is a shapeshifter, a steak-out kind of gal.

Who knows?

For now, my meat eating adventurings have just begun, and oh God, that makes me lip my lips in anticipation.

Now where the hell has Jesus gone.

This queen is hungry.

Aho.

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