I never knew the term existed until I met Sam. In the eyes of most women, he was the perfect man by almost any standard. Apart from his Midas touch to turn small businesses into successful ventures (Sam was a venture capitalist), Sam had it goin’ on. With a penthouse flat that boasted an incredible fleet of modern art, a jazz collection that would impress John Coltrane and a wine cellar to match, Sam’s pockets were clearly deep. So deep in fact that he had no problem sailing like a reckless renegade on Sunday afternoons followed by at least a bottle (maybe two) of his favorite champagne.
Before we ever made love by any sort of traditional standard, he introduced me to a new dimension of eroticism for Sam brought new meaning to the epicurean standard. As strange as that may sound, this man was a sensualist of epic proportion. I would even venture to say that Sam had a cooking or food fetish for I was always the main dish. For him, there was no other way to dine than when food was served across my breasts, navel, legs or derriere, depending on his whim of the evening. But my favorite ‘serving platter’ by far was when he dined on my person.
Sam was of the opinion that dessert simply tasted better when served on the area surrounding my pearl. I have never experienced a more incredible orgasm, a true unearthly experience. The sweet tingling of the strawberries as their juice dripped down my thighs coupled with his gentle laps was more than I could bear. That is, until Sam drizzled hot chocolate all over my navel and down my legs proceeding to devour what was rightfully his. After all, he was responsible for all the cooking.
Sam and I never spent any less than an entire evening together. If my schedule permitted, he would usually ask me to stay the night for intimacy was high on his list of desires. Following our unusual gourmet escapades, midnights were spent sipping wine while listening to jazz and discussing life. Probably because his profession was so demanding, Sam enjoyed simple, philosophical discussions that inevitably circled back to us.
He had always had a passion for ebony companions of the model type – tall, thin, waif-like, elegant and well-spoken. We would fall asleep in each other’s arms, warm and romantic as though we had known each other forever. The only difference was that the crisp, excitement of our interludes never dulled because we both knew that the very next morning our private world would close for the time being and thrive in our memories until the next gastrosexual adventure.