My three great loves in this world are music, literature and food. And depending on the mood or the boy, sex could be tossed in there, too, sometimes replacing one of the items, occasionally flirting with the top spot, but usually hovering just around these three things, eyeing one of the three coveted and beloved positions. In a place called Mandy’s World, I have the pretentious indie rock on repeat, a house made of pages torn from Fitzgerald novels, and my orgasms are intermittent with bites of pizza – Lil’ Frankie’s pizza to be precise. That being said, when a now former boyfriend suggested we bring food into the bedroom, I was all for it. I imagined the bed surrounded my sterling silver plates of lobster tails, chocolate dipped strawberries, and Beluga caviar that we would feed each other like something out of a bad Harlequin romance novel… of course, I was game.

It was a holiday, Thanksgiving to be exact. Nameless boyfriend and I were at his parents’ house when the topic came up. We pulled our clothes back on and headed to the kitchen to see what we could find. Being at his parents’ left us at the whim of their dietary desires, so there were no lobster tails to be found. In fact, since his family was one of those who went out to eat on Turkey Day, there wasn’t much from which to choose. Behind the half-finished jars of Paul Newman’s pasta sauces and leftovers that should have been discarded days ago, we found a six-pack of tapioca. Yeah, this will work, we both agreed as we took two of the cups back up to his bedroom.

I don’t like pudding. I’m more of a crème brulee kinda gal; so to me, tapioca is sort of like the evil, deformed and extremely wonky step-sibling to pudding – what’s up with all those lil’ bumpy things? It’s like bubble tea – another thing, I can do without. However, despite my aversion to the texture, I was willing to play along, because I’ll try most things once.

We again removed our clothes and crawled back into bed. He pulled back the tinfoil top of the little container and dumped it on my stomach. “Really?” I asked, “is this how we’re going to do this?” As the woman in the equation, and the far more, er, rational one, I took things into my own hands. I scooped a clump of the tapioca and threw it as his stomach all sexy like. With my fingertips I made a trail that extended down his torso to the money spot. And because I like to keep things serious and hot, I looked at him and said: “If we do this again, you’re gonna have to wax, because that just looks awful.” I ran my tongue along the trail of the tapioca – the combination against his skin was a sweet ‘n’ salty experience on the taste buds. I couldn’t finish it, and instead slid my body onto his, slipping and sliding against the texture and all its gelatin chaos. “This is fun,” he said laughing, “like our very own Slip ‘n Slide.” Yeah, it was hot.

The second cup remained unopened; it had been decided that either we weren’t the “food-in-bed” types, or that tapioca just wasn’t the best choice. A few months later, shortly before the break-up, we again revisited the idea of food and sex, but this time considering strawberries. However, I wasn’t about to stain my 600-count sheets – he suggested my priorities were out of whack. Perhaps, but lobster tails wouldn’t stain, I told him.

I haven’t had food in bed since then. I also haven’t had tapioca since, and don’t plan on ever digesting it again. It’s better left on the memory of his slightly bronzed stomach in a New Hampshire bedroom one Saturday morning long ago. I guess I’m sentimental like that. However, should the topic ever be addressed again, I’ll suggest something along the lines of whipped cream, or something else without texture or the ability to stain; the only lasting mark that should remain on bed sheets should be the wrinkles in the fabric from our bodies having been there in the first place.