Cheese and sex

“You two probably haven’t swallowed a lot of semen”
–Chelle to the men

“That is what we used to listen to during…you know..”
“Camembert time?”
–Paddy and Michelle

So, since I have mentioned this a few times in passing, and people keep asking…I am going to write about my feeling about Camembert, Brie, and other creamy French cheeses.

Here is my thesis: creamy French cheeses like Camembert and Brie taste like sex.

No one seems to understand this except me, which leaves me perplexed.
Either people who read my blog don’t ever have sex or they don’t ever eat creamy French cheese. Because if you have done both of those things, how can you not understand? It is perfectly clear.

If you don’t know what sex tastes like, don’t talk to me. You are doing it wrong, and need to go and do it properly. There aren’t many things I would put that bluntly about something as completely subject to whims and personal preference as sex, but taste is part of it if you have the ability to taste. If you have sex you should know what that taste is. If you don’t, you are missing a big part of it.

If you don’t know, then find someone to show you. Not me, all I I will tell you is that it tastes like Camembert. I mean, sure, I guess you could just eat some cheese and then you’d know what sex tastes like, but I would recommend tasting some sex, and then trying the cheese. Maybe some wine. You can put the cheese right next to the bed so you don’t have to get up. Plus, the cheese should really be out of the fridge for a little while before you eat it.

If you aren’t convinced, try again. In case you did anything wrong.

If you still don’t get it, that’s OK. At least you’ll have had sex and some good cheese.

It’s really a no lose proposition.

Have another glass of wine, and get back in bed.







This blog has been interrupted by real life

Please stand by.

Tonight’s theme: friends and enablers.

I had a really good Saturday. Thank you to all who participated — you know who you are. Sunday, my plan was to subvert the Zen cliché of being the dog. Dogs are enthusiastic. Energetic. Friendly. Hyper. That’s not me. I am more of a cat.

Today’s goal: Be the Cat.

I did a really, really good job of it until 17:00. I didn’t get dressed. After coffee and company, I lounged slothfully around on the sofa. I stretched a lot. I did some reading. Quite a lot of reading. At 2, I actually took a nap–which I consider quite a success, because I never take naps. Then I had lunch and a hot bath and lounged around some more.

At 17:00 I got a text from Chelle inviting me up for dinner. Somehow, hijinks ensued. I know. Hijinks on Tequila Hill? That never happens!

Shayla provided a hookah and lessons on how to operate it. We had a great dinner. A good bottle of Pinot noir. We were being really well behaved. Reasonable. An early bed time was predicted. Then Paddy came over and somehow bourbon and hard cider came out. I can’t really complain about how it turned out, because it was really fun and we laughed a lot…but…well…it is Sunday night. We all have work in the morning.

At least Shayla kept Rick from burning the neighborhood down with alien Chinese lanterns. (Note: Alien Chinese Lanterns would be a good band name)

It’s too late to go to bed early now!

Somehow I seemed to have ordered myself a hookah. How did that happen??? This is the magic of Tequila Hill. You go up for dinner and you come down with a new hookah.

Thanks, Chelle and Rick!
I love you.

What I want to know, however, is why no one else understands why Camembert tastes like sex. It does. It totally does, only I am evidently the only one who gets it.

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Testing, testing

Hookah tests in progress…

It’s a good thing King Shayla is here. We never would have figured this out on our own.

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