I never met an olive I didn’t like. Whether they’re wrinkly and chewy with a bitter aftertaste or
marble-smooth and sopping with brine, I love tugging them off a toothpick with my teeth, squeezing them between my lips and nibbling the pit like a dog gnaws a bone. I enjoy olives so much, in fact, I cannot eat them in public, for I am an embarrassment to my dining companions: contorting my face, rolling my eyes and moaning like I’ve just been DP’d beneath the table.
As a food editor and sex columnist, I can’t tell if my fruity obsession is motivated more by gastronomic hedonism or some bizarre fetishism. The desire to get fucked in a tub full of olives does not strike me as strange; then again, I’ve been known to give coffee-sugar handjobs and incorporate yellow mustard and Tabasco sauce into my lovemaking. More recently, my boyfriend lay naked on the kitchen floor while I stood over him pelting eggs and pitching handfuls of flour. (We never did get that security deposit back.)
City Paper: Splish-Splosh!