Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

Besides the arguments about reality television versus news magazines, which had been subsiding, the three of us got into arguments about what to eat for dinner or, on occasions when we went out, what restaurant to go to, reminding me of the kind of relationships where couples argue about how and when to have sex. When it came to sex, there had never been a struggle since our sex transcended consciousness. When it came to our appetites for food, we were afflicted with too much consciousness. Monica and I became competitive and somewhat anal-retentive, and Bill, who placed such store on his refined taste, didn't make things any better. As far as I was concerned (and in spite of the increased sensitivity of my palate) I could have ordered in Chinese food until the cows came home, but Monica, who complained about my lack of adventurousness (another comment common to couples who argue about sex), was aligning herself with Bill, who was becoming a snob. Despite his humble origins, he began to display the characteristics of a landed aristocrat. He'd developed a peculiar sneer that was half Oxford don and half rearing horse. The stability of our little menage was beginning to be threatened by the alliance between Monica and Bill against my constant, "I have a craving for Chinese," or "It's too much trouble to cook, let's just order in Chinese," or "It's actually cheaper to order in the Chinese than to go out and buy the ingredients for a meal."

One thing I learned in my AA meetings was acceptance. We are all children of God and everything is as it's meant to be, though 1 have to say that when I go two or three days without ordering in Chinese, I start to get irritable. And if I'm going to watch "Sixty Minutes" or any of the other magazine shows, Chinese is a requirement. I'm basically an easygoing guy, but I'd say that in general if I'm deprived of my Chinese on Sunday, I can get depressed and even aggressive. On one occasion when 1 was deprived of both "Sixty Minutes" and Chinese, my Tourette's was ignited and I started yelling, "Fuck you, mommy: " 1 would have been the first to admit I was a Chinese food addict, but there are worse things one can be addicted to. Destructive sex that ruins other people's apartments is one example. My obsession with Chinese food wasn't hurting anyone, and from a health standpoint 1 had been switching from sauteed broccoli in garlic sauce to steamed broccoli in oyster sauce, from white rice to brown rice, from chow fun to steamed vermicelli noodles. Sure, repetition can be confining, but as Emily Dickenson once said about her resistance to change, "1 know Amherst well."

"I don't call fortune cookies almond cookies or those little pieces of pineapple and orange sections they give you in Chinese restaurants dessert." Bill's tone was sardonic, but I knew he was hurting. Our differences were creating an even greater rift than had occurred when I refused to let him suck my cock.

There were times when I thought the three of us should see General Shapiro, who had told us when we left that he would always find time for us if we ever wanted to come back, while at the same time making it absolutely clear that he didn't have any time left in his schedule. This was just one of the paradoxes of the treatment. Another was the fact that he could talk endlessly about himself and his marriage heroics on the couples counseling battlefield, but when you asked him about his personal life, he would admonishingly say, "I thought we were here to talk about you." 1 wanted to talk to him about food and sex and ask him how he decided what to eat and where to go to dinner with his wife, but I knew he was going to give me that quizzical stare that turned wishes into neuroses. Yes, there was something wrong with me, and one of the chief symptoms was that I wanted him to tell me what to do. Yes, I knew it wouldn't do any good. I was going to have to work the food thing out with Monica and Bill on my own.

1 was willing to negotiate the reality- television. 1 was equally willing to try new foods and even eat out now and then. Yet the cornerstone of any negotiation had to be take-out Chinese and "Sixty Minutes" on Sunday nights. Beyond that, I was open to suggestions, provided there was at least one other day of the week that we all agreed to order in Chinese. We could have Rumanian cuisine for all 1 cared, as long as it wasn't on Sunday and as long as it left room for one other day when 1 could have the wonton soup, egg roll, and chicken chow mein, the combination plate referred to in shorthand by cognoscenti around the world as the number one.

We finally agreed on Sunday and Thursday. I still loved Bill's meatloaf, but he was hell-bent on creativity. He didn't like having the same comfortable foods all the time. He said experiment was at the heart of truly great cuisine. He wanted to try new things, to experience tastes and sensations he hadn't tried before. What he said he liked was an implicit criticism of me. I am a creature of habit and the same old things are what make me happy. A new taste or smell is like a strange city or foreign country. It's okay to be a tourist now and then. However, 1 like to get home. What 1 like when it comes to food is what I know; it's rare that I'm able to assimilate a new taste or texture. But I gave in, feeling like a rat in a laboratory experiment and gritting my teeth through a hundred meals that were memorable in the displeasure they caused. 1 don't differentiate one Chinese meal from the other and 1 don't remember any of them, but that's what I like.

1 actually felt that part of Bill's and Monica's pleasure in sampling the cuisines of the world came from seeing me suffer. And God forbid if it turned out I liked a dish. That was a sure guarantee I'd never taste it again. Look what happened when Bill made hummus: He showed me how you smear the "homos" on a wedge of pita bread, add cucumber, tomato, and a touch of mint, and I loved it. The next day, I was jumping for joy. Finally, he'd come up with a new dish that was not only edible, but delicious. 1 immediately said, "Let's have `homos' again soon. 1 love `homos."'

"What you mean to say is that some of your best friends are homos."

"It's hummus!" Monica admonished.

"Homos." 1 repeated.

"No, hummus. The accent is on the first syllable, and you have to make a little chhhhh sound with roof of your mouth. Chhhommos! Say it."

"Chhhummus."

Needless to say, even though I finally got the pronunciation of hummus, I wasn't offered any after that night, although I did get to try some very enticing dishes, amongst them duck with prune stuffing, lamb shank with olives and lemon, and choucroute. I wish I could say Monica was one of those dishes. Back when I couldn't find Monica, I went through my period of being overweight, but at least I was aware of it. I was afraid I would be unrecognizable, that no one would know me under the layers of fat; but when Monica lost her boyish figure, she didn't seem to care.

After all we'd been through, I'd become attached to her; I wasn't going to leave her. However, 1 often wondered if her mind wasn't drowning in all the flesh she was putting on. It used to be that our waterbed was in danger of busting. Now that we had a regular bed, the problem was Monica's heaviness, which created a trough at the center. It was particularly difficult to read a magazine before I went to sleep because every time Monica shifted, I would roll into her-something that wasn't helped by the fact that I was beginning to have a weight problem of my own. I wanted to say something, yet I didn't know what I could say without risking eliciting her animal rage. She loved her meals so much. I also didn't want to do anything to inhibit the healthy interest in food that was the fruit of all our work with General Shapiro.

Gradually, 1 found myself getting caught up in the food hysteria. Along with my two Chinese meals, I began to look forward to my Bries and Camemberts, my terrines and fois Bras. 1 loved "Sixty Minutes 11" almost as much as "Sixty Minutes," but I couldn't resist "The Apprentice," which led me to "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" "Survivor," and even "Fear Factor." Soon it didn't matter what I was watching as long as 1 had something in my mouth, just as it didn't matter what 1 was eating as long as something was on the tube.