Drawing Slutty Cheff making me a fish pie to accompany her writing (below)
The first time you cook for them is special, like the first time you fuck. You invite them into your kitchen, or your bedroom, and there are all these things on the walls and in the cupboards that mean something to you but nothing to them. The things you eat and the way you fuck is personal, some things may not be to their taste; and you might have to introduce them to some things, like taramasalata or good sex.
I let him in my kitchen and let him touch my things. Before it was my space but now suddenly it’s ours; his long legs are squashed beneath my lady table and his big hairy hands are holding my dead granny’s favourite flowery mug. Suddenly it all feels too soon, too intimate, like we rushed into this! I mean, we’ve fucked thirty seven times and most of that time was spent with his face buried so deep between my thighs that he could see my heart racing; but cooking a meal for him in my kitchen, I dunno, it just feels a bit intense?
He might open my fridge. Shit. Everyone’s fridge has that weird bespoke smell that they’re okay with but other people find weird. Perhaps it’s like armpits, if you secretly like the smell of someone else’s fridge, it doesn’t mean that you’re a pervert, it just means your chemistry is real and falling in love is imminent.
When we fuck i’m naked and so is he. But in the kitchen I’m wearing this ugly apron and he’s sitting with a glass of wine watching me cook like he’s fucking Greg Wallace. I wonder if he’s noticed that my wine glasses are from IKEA. I’m not sophisticated like his ex who buys bottle-green glassware from shitty flea markets.
He is grinning. I’m skinning and mashing. The vibe is weird and steam is clinging. It’s all insecure and funny and bumbling. We’re cooking and fucking like we know what we’re doing. Piping mash potato when we’d usually slap it on top. Or performing extra good oral sex as if that’s standard practice. Or putting mascara on for the pub. We are in the bit where we lie to impress or protect feelings. When we pretend to like something they cook, or pretend to cum.
I give him the fish pie. Do you like fish pie? I say. Looks nice, he says. Liar. - Slutty Cheff
I let him in my kitchen and let him touch my things. Before it was my space but now suddenly it’s ours; his long legs are squashed beneath my lady table and his big hairy hands are holding my dead granny’s favourite flowery mug. Suddenly it all feels too soon, too intimate, like we rushed into this! I mean, we’ve fucked thirty seven times and most of that time was spent with his face buried so deep between my thighs that he could see my heart racing; but cooking a meal for him in my kitchen, I dunno, it just feels a bit intense?
He might open my fridge. Shit. Everyone’s fridge has that weird bespoke smell that they’re okay with but other people find weird. Perhaps it’s like armpits, if you secretly like the smell of someone else’s fridge, it doesn’t mean that you’re a pervert, it just means your chemistry is real and falling in love is imminent.
When we fuck i’m naked and so is he. But in the kitchen I’m wearing this ugly apron and he’s sitting with a glass of wine watching me cook like he’s fucking Greg Wallace. I wonder if he’s noticed that my wine glasses are from IKEA. I’m not sophisticated like his ex who buys bottle-green glassware from shitty flea markets.
He is grinning. I’m skinning and mashing. The vibe is weird and steam is clinging. It’s all insecure and funny and bumbling. We’re cooking and fucking like we know what we’re doing. Piping mash potato when we’d usually slap it on top. Or performing extra good oral sex as if that’s standard practice. Or putting mascara on for the pub. We are in the bit where we lie to impress or protect feelings. When we pretend to like something they cook, or pretend to cum.
I give him the fish pie. Do you like fish pie? I say. Looks nice, he says. Liar. - Slutty Cheff