Our friends at Elite Daily suggested I make an aphrodisiac dinner for a date. This was foreign territory for Carrie Lezshaw. First, I am not big on the whole cooking thing. Lavish meals in a dimly lit overpriced instagrammable restaurant? Yes. A lavish meal that I have to cook? Not so much. (This is why I solely survive on granola bars when I’m not out.)
Not one to turn down a challenge, and wanting to test the waters with a girl I had been dating, I agreed to cook a dinner solely using aphrodisiacs. After carefully researching aphrodisiacs that didn’t gross me out (there isn’t anything sexy about oysters and asparagus, I’m sorry) I decided to cook a dinner that consisted of a basil watermelon strawberry salad, ginger salmon + edamame, rice with agave honey and some other shit that I can’t remember, and chocolate covered pomegranates for dessert. Plus champagne, obviously. All aphrodisiacs.
I have a libido so high it’s actually kind of ridiculous, so I wasn’t convinced that aphrodisiacs would do anything that I wasn’t already experiencing. I had been seeing Ryan for about a month. I was magnetically attracted to her; she has this sexy balance of masculine and feminine energy that drives me crazy. Our sex was pretty f*cking good, and was only getting better.
She was a little put-off by some of my kinks, which I admittedly introduced too soon, but other than that, all was well. Lovehoney sent me this absoloutely divine paddle and whip, which I obnoxiously display as wall art. I had no expectations of using them, if she wasn’t interested– they just look cute on my wall, is all. We’ll get to that. First, I have to cook dinner.
I have no f*cking idea how to cook (shocking) beyond chopping up the salad, but Amazon meal kits are perfect for dyke princesses that want to impress their dates whole still exerting minimal domestic effort. After I situated the idiot proof salmon entree, all my effort went into brushing my waist length extensions and picking out the perfect black strappy lingerie. I slipped a floral robe over a skin-tight black dress, sprayed some lavender perfume, and excitedly/nervously waited for Ryan.* She walked in and I had to stop myself from jumping her bones right away. I lit a candle and turned on my sex playlist (which consists of what I realized, songs that are only sexy to me aka The Dope Show by Marilyn Manson.)
Halfway through the dinner, I had the giddy flip-in-stomach-and-pussy feeling you get when you really like talking to someone, and champagne is swimming through your veins. Everything about her became erotic– the way she spoke, the way she held her fork, her collar bones, everything. We kept breaking out conversation to stare and smirk at each other. I had to physically take deep breaths.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, she pushed her plate away.
“Can we take a break?” she didn’t wait for my answer as she got up and grabbed my face. I’m pretty sure the aphrodisiacs didn’t even kick it yet– maybe it was the black mini dress I was wearing– but she kissed me with such hunger, I thought I was going to orgasm just from kissing her. She pushed me against the wall, against the refrigerator, against every surface until we fell onto my velvet couch. (yas.)
I thought I’d cool it on my kink stuff but she grabbed the paddle off the wall and bent me over.
“Is this okay?” she asked. (yay for making ongoing consent sexy!)
God bless Lovehoney and god bless my chapstick lesbian.
I’m not trying to brag (ok maybe I am) but I can have multiple orgasms and usually orgasm about 5-15 times per sexual encounter. I think Ryan was a little intimidated by this when we first slept together, but this time, we were on the same page. The orgasms between us reached the 20s. We took breaks to eat the rest of the dinner, and have more wine. Then more sex. Then dessert. Then more sex. We sexed my weave and bronzer and lashes off. By the end of it, I was so tripped out in the sex haze I could barely walk or see. And yet, I could still keep going.
My roommate had come home right when we got started, and promptly left (she’s my ride or die.) She then returned after going to have her own amazing lesbian sex. The next morning, she told me that when she got home, six-hours later and still heard sex, she was sure it was our other roommate because “no normal humans can go that long.” I mean, we took breaks, but yeah (#Blessed!)
I have pretty bad luck, and whenever I try to do something, it usually backfires. I was lowkey worried we’d both get food poisoning, or I’d fart, or I’d get knocked unconscious somehow, or one of us would have sudden repulsion syndrome, or my lofted bed would fall from the ceiling, or something equally as tragic. But it was actually perfect. Sometimes life just works out.
I had released so much oxytocin I couldn’t tell if I was in love with her or in love with myself or in love with the salmon dinner or in love with the leather paddle or in love with my life.
So if you’re looking to ~impress a lady~ and have sex for hours on end, get cooking, babe.
