grilled cheese and sex and emmy rossum

Es­ti­mated reading time is 4 min­utes.

ON MY WAY OUT I SAW IT, there at the check-out line. I saw it while waiting in line to pay for my Tillamook Vanilla Bean ice cream: an at­trac­tive young woman who could be an ac­tress or a model or a ‘celebrity’ gracing the cover of the néw Cos­mopolitan (Oc­tober 2014 issue). Her name? Emmy Rossum. 

Who?

Rings no bells for me.

I could not re­call having seen or heard of her prior to smiling at her pic­ture and a state­ment at­trib­uted to her on that cover: “Men only need two things—grilled cheese and sex.”

 

Men only need two things—grilled cheese and sex. Oh, right . . . and the ass they de­serve.

 

I simply dis­missed Ms. Rossum’s quip as too silly to think about. But when I got back in the car with Berni, I turned and said, “Honey, men only need two things—grilled cheese and sex.”

Of course, the state­ment was so ob­vious once said aloud that she agreed and said that she had been pro­viding me with both for years and I’d better ap­pre­ciate it!

 

Cosmo Rossum 500

The day after tomorrow

She was in fact an ac­tress I knew, having starred in the crit­i­cally panned but highly en­joy­able movie The Day After To­morrow. But I am not going to me­ander off into movie-reviewing when there is grilled cheese and sex to discuss—or as I am be­gin­ning to think (fan­ta­size) of it: grilled cheese sex.

Now, in my wild and wooly days, I sam­pled a little of this and a little of that. It didn’t take long to find out that most of the long­ings de­sires im­pulses ob­ses­sions that we call ‘per­ver­sions’ (no fun in that term!) or ‘kinks’ (now that’s a fun-loving vein) were a ‘guy thing.’

Not that I had any of that.

I only un­cov­ered a few things that more than a few gals were in­ter­ested in. the most common seemed to be doing it some­where where we might get caught: in bushes in a crowded park on a Sat­urday af­ter­noon; in the back seat in a public parking garage; or in her room up­stairs during a family get-together.

Not that I did any of that.

 

AllenEverythingSex

Everything you always wanted to know 

Okay, for an en­ter­taining per­spec­tive on this, see the sec­tion ti­tled “Why Do Some Women Have Trouble Reaching An Or­gasm? in Woody Allen’s 1972 movie Every­thing You Al­ways Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask. Woody plays a suc­cessful, horny (inept) Italian hus­band newly mar­ried to wife seem­ingly in­ca­pable of en­joying sex, played by Louise Lasser.

That is, until one day while shop­ping in an up­scale home ac­ces­sories store, she is sud­denly over­come with pas­sion: “We could get caught.” ”I know, I know! Do it, do it! “Life plays strange tricks on me,” he muses to his friend.

 

Here’s one every guy be­lieves to be so: that he should get the ass that he de­serves and he de­serves all the ass that he gets!

 

An­other one was re­ceiving and ad­min­is­tering mild forms of pain. For a while in the ‘70s, drip­ping hot melted wax from a candle upon one another’s naked flesh was ‘in’  for ‘normal’ cou­ples. (It’s called wax play by some ad­ven­ture­some twosomes.)

This may have been part of the post-Deep Throat/Behind The Green Door ex­per­i­men­ta­tion that America’s oth­er­wise staid het­ero­sexual ma­jority en­joyed and got their ya-yas out be­fore early onset rea­gan­mentia set in.

Anyway, the wax was dripped slowly, lov­ingly, sen­su­ally wher­ever one wanted it or wanted to.

Ex­quisite pain.

Longing for the surcease from the pain.

You get the pic­ture, oui?

So, nothing says it has to be candle wax in one’s wax play—grilled cheese sex anyone?

Of course, the method of de­livery of said grilled cheese to se­lect body parts is some­thing that my imag­i­na­tion seems not to want to address.

 

DayAfterTomorrow

Great poster that was part of a great pro­mo­tional cam­paign to build in­terest in the movie. That the movie wasn’t as good as the cam­paign led too many viewers to judge it negatively—which is too bad, as it was a good movie.

The ass you deserve

The other cover “sto­ries” for the new Cosmo beg for a re­sponse: of the eight ti­tles, four are di­rectly about sex while two others come close. Clockwise:

GET THE ASS YOU DESERVE!
Well now, here’s one every guy be­lieves to be so: that he should get the ass that he de­serves and he de­serves all the ass that he gets!

Your New Se­cret Weapon For Hotter Sex (He’ll Love It Too).
Even if it’s your first time, dear Cosmo reader, and you don’t get it right, if it’s “new” how could he not love it, too?

10 Cra­ziest Sex Moves We’ve Ever Tried!
No more—you had me at the ex­cla­ma­tion point!

Alas, the first one (“ass”) is ac­tu­ally a blurb for a butt and leg workout. That is prob­ably the only time you will ever read about Cosmo on this site. What’s amazing is all this in­terest in sex from a man my age just from a mag­a­zine cover—and I had for­gotten to take my Vi­agra with my morning vi­t­a­mins that day!

Oh well and ho-hum, back to fan­tasies of grilled cheese, sex, and Emmy Rossum . . .

 

Cosmo Rossum photo 700

The photo at the top of this page of Emmy Rossum is from the Cos­mopolitan mag­a­zine. Of course.

 

1 thought on “grilled cheese and sex and emmy rossum”

  1. I re­ceived this as a pri­vate email from a friend who granted me per­mis­sion to post it here anonymously:

    “This post is in­tel­lec­tu­ally in­ter­esting to me: one of the strangest and most dis­turbing (to me) as­pects of mar­ried life was my ex-wife’s re­peated de­sire to have sex in dan­gerous places. Dan­gerous in the sense of po­ten­tially being dis­cov­ered was merely one side of it.

    On top of my boss’ desk at work, in my par­ents’ bed­room while they were out to dinner, or on a heavily brush-covered freeway me­dian where a cop might po­ten­tially stop at any mo­ment to in­ves­ti­gate our stopped car are examples. 

    But much worse than that, were sit­u­a­tions that were phys­i­cally dangerous—on a beach against un­scal­able sea cliffs, with the tide rapidly coming in; on a tiled rooftop, while trying to avoid sliding off; and on top of a slip­pery moun­tain glacier, lit­er­ally inches away from a 200-foot-deep crevasse. 

    The most ir­ri­tating thing was that she had ab­solutely no ap­pre­ci­a­tion for how dif­fi­cult it is to per­form while trying to look over your shoulder and knowing that an in­stant’s inat­ten­tion could lit­er­ally bring death. That is def­i­nitely one part of being mar­ried that I don’t miss . . .”

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