(Man)Eater

by Eric Jost

They say the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. In my case, the stomach often bypasses my heart altogether and enjoys the delicious meal with little care for the person who provided it.

Three years ago, while still an undergrad, I was dating an upperclassman named Chris. Chris was the big man on campus—class president, outspoken, well-liked—and for whatever reason, he decided that it wouldn’t hurt his reputation too much to undertake a relationship with me. I, of course, enjoyed the attention that came from dating such a well-respected student.

Early on in our relationship, he and I had a horrible throw-down, blow-out fight. Apparently, he was offended when I chose to go out to eat rather than accompany him to a party. The fight was the culmination of months of unspoken complaints, but my failure to make an appearance at this party provided Chris with the occasion to air each of his many grievances with me.

The day after our argument I decided it would be best for all concerned if I attempted to smooth things over with a leisurely lunch at an upscale restaurant. So I called Chris up and after much pleading he reluctantly agreed to go out to eat with me.

The walk to McDonald’s was long and awkward. Chris refused to speak to me, but an unexpected thunderstorm forced us to huddle together under my umbrella. Once in the restaurant, Chris sat in silence for fifteen minutes before a break in between gulps provided me with the opportunity to inquire, “So… are we over?”

The firestorm of complaints unleashed by this simple question was unexpected and slightly overwhelming. I sat there slurping my large Coke as Chris attacked my most insignificant quirks and foibles. At the height of his rage, Chris stormed out of McDonald’s, leaving his anger and half-eaten meal behind.

I was faced with a dilemma: Do I chase after the man I love and beg his forgiveness? Or do I remain in the crowded restaurant and consume the extra meal that has been left before me?

I chose the meal.

My love affair with food has been going on for some twenty-four years now. Even as a toddler, my parents would marvel at my ability to eat two-adult-sized portions of crab legs at our local seafood eatery. I am continually greeted with smiles and accolades from familiar wait staff as they eagerly anticipate the amount of money I will spend on yet another attempt to fill the void that perpetually echoes from within.

When I reached my teens, my ongoing hunger was forced to battle another insatiable appetite: Men.  As I began exploring my sexuality, I found that my love of food was often pitted against my love of dick.  No longer was my stomach the only one calling the shots, but my loins were now throwing in their two cents as well; my quest to find the perfect pizza rivaled my quest to find the perfect fuck. Unfortunately for my stomach, I equated attractiveness with thinness and so I ignored my hunger pains. No longer would I be  the chubby adolescent ignored by those I desired; I would do whatever it took to attract men and placate my sexual appetite. I made going to the gym an everyday routine. I would lift weights, do sit-ups, jog, and bike. I incorporated swimming. Then yoga. I was a well-oiled

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