(Man)Eater by Eric Jost

machine on my way to physical perfection, hoping to attract even more men with my well-defined arms and toned abs. My refrigerator became a barren wasteland, with nothing but a few icicles and some baking soda snowballs residing inside. I looked great but my stomach rumbled and gurgled at nights, crying out for me to fill it with whatever came my way. I ignored its pleas.

After years of maintaining this routine, however, my patience began to wane. I started frequenting the gym less and less; my stomach lashed out against my wanton sexual desires and attempted to reclaim its place as rightful owner over my physical actions. Unfortunately, what both my stomach and my passion did not count on was the complication from an external force: Love.hose jabbing pains coming from my abdomen no longer signaled a desire to go out and find a KFC at three o’clock in the morning. No longer did I wonder which one of my fuck buddies were conveniently located on the way to picking up an eight-piece bucket of extra crispy fried chicken. Now all I wanted was to be with whomever I was dating at the time. My lustfulness mocked my stomach as its desires were fed regularly and consistently, while my appetite for butter-smothered biscuits went unnoticed. I believed that I could only be loved if I maintained a small frame, so no matter how often I paused outside a KFC to take in that heavenly aroma, I resisted the temptation. Unfortunately, I started losing serious weight.

My new ultra-skinny self was a shock both to me and my partners. My ribs looked like they would burst from my skin any second and my constant exhaustion went against all I had been fighting for: I was too tired to even maintain a relationship or have sex. And while I secretly prided myself on my ability to achieve such a petite size, the ones I loved were not impressed and were more repulsed by my appearance than attracted.

Fortunately, I began to notice that the men in my life were facing similar dilemmas: balancing the appetite for delicious food with one’s desire to love and fuck. It seems that, at least for my partners, and me it is hard for us to balance our hunger for food, sex, and love. But I’ve discovered I’m not the only one who wakes up craving an Egg McMuffin. One ex-boyfriend of mine even said that he would readily give up sex for a lifetime supply of chocolate. At first, I was shocked and offended, but then realized just how right he was. But I would go one step further and make sure that I created the perfect balance between pleasure and pleasure. I intended to have my cake and eat it too!

For the most part, my attempts to cast off the socially-constructed shackles of appropriate eating behavior within the confines of a relationship have been successful. In fact, I like to think of my perpetual consumption as a form of independence. No man is going to tell me that I’m too fat or that I shouldn’t order another round of French fries. And if he’d rather I didn’t finish off his meal before he even had a bite, then perhaps we should rethink the relationship. Luckily for me, I’ve discovered I can achieve a healthy weight while maintaining the level of eating I enjoy. As a result, my boyfriends typically find my never-ending food orgy adorable rather than repulsive. The fact that I can consume two large pizzas and a two-liter Coke and still crave more seems to be fairly impressive and I am almost always commended for my efforts. And frankly, I would rather be loved for my ability to eat, than turned away for resembling a skeleton.

Days after the McDonald’s incident, Chris forgave me and I promised to be more aware of my actions and think of his feelings, rather than solely of whether or not I felt like eating Italian or Mexican. Several months later, Chris and I were reminiscing about the stupidity of our fight and he inquired, “Why didn’t you come after me? What did you do?” To which I responded, “I went home and cried.”

“So how were the rest of my French fries?”

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