The Good place

Compliments To The Chef

She wonders why.
Why do we think about sex all the time?
After waking up and before it.
Before the food and after it.
Before a steamy, dreamy and gleamy session
and after it.
Rise and shine, the little man.
One person, two men.
I am Batman.

Food.
Remember how you hog that,
(For the lack of a greasier word)
The world's best plate of over-filling,
soul-soothing,
mouth waterfall-ing of food.
Yet it couldn't stop you from quiet bawling
over that one on the other side of the screen?
Mere seconds after
the slurpiest finger lick.
Why?
Well, pardon the lack of flourish.
Because it's food.
It's delish.

I get it, it's wrapped up.
Not even mapped up in my head.
However,
would you mind if I run
on the tip of my tongue
from the waist to the boob?
Oomph!
Like licking clean a pasta plate.
And then smiling broad,
half-and-half
happy and appalled.

No matter how long you had to drive.
No matter how much you've spent.
No matter how you strive.
That cream needs to be whisked properly.
Exquisite or not.
The speed of your hands needs to be just enough.
Not too slow, not too tough.
Only then you'd enjoy the dip of the knife.
Baking a cake is never a piece of cake.

And then there's the chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream softie.
Minimal and begging to be held.
You hold it by the brim of the neck.
(or bottom,
preferential treatments are to be upheld.)
Break the chocolate barrier
and retreat for the lazy white smile.
Go all in.
Consume it.
Let it consume you.
Let it melt over your fingers.
For a billion years it should linger.

So, why do we think about sex all the time?
You're simply delicious.

Mind if you'd share your lips for a second?
Compliments to the chef.
Chef's kiss.