Corinne and the Cheese

Corinne and the Cheese (Part 2)

On Tuesday, July 7, 2015 my Honda Civic broke down on the side of El Camino Real in San Mateo. It would not be inaccurate to say that in many ways, I too broke down that night. I pressed my forehead down to the steering wheel, and closed my eyes.

I was 30 years old and living at home in the Bay Area. I was 30 years old and failing out of community college—which I didn't even know you could do—and like many it wasn't because of lack of capability, but lack of interest, which I suppose when you get down to it isn't entirely different.

My mom and dad had never gone to college. They married young, and had me even younger. There were bumps in the road of course, but, they had survived.

My life was supposed to be better. They had worked so hard to make sure that my life would be better.

I worked at a frozen yogurt shop to make money. I was the sole person responsible for getting the Chocolate Cheesecake flavor on our menu. I also seemed to be the only person who knew that even someone with a Harvard degree and a subscription to the New Yorker sounds like an idiot the moment the word "froyo" leaves their lips.

As time wore on, I tried to find purpose. I saw a psychiatrist, Dr. Kitzman, who would ask me how my week had been, then just stare at me for 48 minutes before asking for $90.

I tinkered with different prescriptions. But no matter the medication, everything was just... floating.

I didn't wonder where my life had gone wrong, but I definitely wondered why my life hadn't yet gone right. There was no direction to go, so picked one.

At 30 years old, with $819, a body pillow, and my Honda Civic to my name, I set out on the road, from San Mateo, California all the way to El Camino Real in San Mateo, California, a grand total of 3.7 miles before my carburetor or transmission or one of those words literally exploded. Bang. Smoke. The whole production. Even my car was climaxing. I sat there, crying for what felt like hours, or however long the song "Trap Queen" by Fetty Wap is.

I didn't said goodbye to my parents. I was afraid that if I did, I'd never end up leaving.

I opened my eyes and lifted my forehead from the steering wheel. It was 1:50 in the morning. It was raining. My cell phone was dead. Two blocks back had been a sign for Heidi's Pies, a late-night diner. I breathed in. I breathed out. I turned off the engine, gathered my backpack, and headed towards the rotating neon sign.

I opened the door, the bell hanging above it ringing out tinny. The lights were dim and the place was empty.

A man came back from the kitchen. He was greasy. His white apron was greasy, his thick hands, filled with tension as though his blood pressure was so high he'd burst with a pin - also greasy. His face looked stinky, and greasy. And his slicked back dark hair, balding, was greasy.

"Hey sorry, miss, power's been out, we're just running on a generator. We're outta pretty much everything, I'm about to close up shop."

"I was hoping to get something to eat."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm the only one here. No Heidi. No pies."

The sky rocked with thunder. I looked back, the torrents of wet bouncing off the defective light poles.

"Boy it's really coming down out there."

"It really is," I said. "Could I charge my phone for a few minutes?"

The man let out a sigh.

"Sure, hand it over here."

I sat down at the bar and handed him my phone.

"Well. I guess as long as you're waiting, I could probably offer you a couple'a grilled cheese sandwiches."

I bit my lip and looked through him in a way I could tell a woman hadn't looked at him in at least 20 years.

"I'll take it. I'll take it all."

I reached for my panties, paying no mind to the grease that was staining them. It would serve as a reminder of the night that forever changed the course of my erotic desires.

His name was Brian. As he penetrated me with fingers and member alike, the smells and oil of cheese penetrated me as well.

They say the largest sex organ in the human body is the brain. I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that it must be true. Because something happened that night, in my brain and in my body, that opened me up in ways I never thought imaginable.

Brian handed me my phone. Full charge.

I explained my plight to Brian, leaving out a few choice details like the proximity of where I had called home just an hour ago.

He offered for me to stay the night, but I told him I was going to wait for a tow.

He told me he'd give me $300 as a gift, I thanked him, and I told him I'd see him again, but I knew I wouldn't.

I walked to my car, got inside, and had the best night of sleep I've ever had.

The next morning I called AAA. The driver said I'd thrown a rod—if he only knew—and my engine was ruined. It was a '93 Civic, meaning replacing the engine was probably more expensive than the car itself.

I told him my parents would be picking me up to take me to the mechanic, and he towed the car off.

Then I flagged another man down, and hitchhiked my way to the Greyhound station. New York City was my destination. Because if I was going to be stagnant, at the very least I was going to do it in a new surrounding.

And thanks to Brian, I knew one way I could find a hot meal and a little cash along the way.

I wasn't completely confident that I'd solved the mystery. And why would I be? You don't exactly grow up looking at diagrams in health class and learn "this is where the cheese goes."

A new world had opened up. One full of possibility, but with no roadmap.

I found myself in Asheville and decided to take the plunge as it were, for science.

I walked into the Whole Foods, typically too rich for my blood, but if I was going to skimp on quality, now was not the time.

I stopped in front of the cheese section. And breathed in. Then out. That was something I was learning to do. Breathing. But this time the air around me was tantalizing.

I drifted along the barrier, running my fingers along my options. I suddenly understood what it must be like for most women who walk into a bar with lust, picking anything they want.

My fingers slowed and settled on a very comfortable choice that had never let me down so far: brie, triple creme.

Back at my motel, I lay in bed, the wedge on the pillow next to me. I shifted my eyes towards it, and back at the ceiling. Ceilings were familiar. Comfortable. I felt virginal in some way, as though the brie and I both knew we wanted to be there, but were making small talk until one of us made the first move.

I reached over, my finger picking at the plastic wrapping. Eventually I gripped the wedge, and pulled back its plastic wrap, exposing the tip. I slowly brought it down between my hips, then lower. I began rubbing. I'm sure now seems like an odd time for modesty, but the rest continued mostly as you'd imagine. And my working hypothesis, indeed appeared to be working out even better than I had hope for.

And from that moment forward, there was to be no intimacy without cheese.