Manwich Or How to feed a hunger that is never satisfied

By Scitt King

Is a manwhich a sandwich made for a man, or a man made for a sandwich? Questions like this keep me up at night while I wait for the Tylenol PM to kick in.

After I have sex, I am happy for no reason for at least 14 hours. Don’t misread me; I’m good to go again. It just feels, for half a day, like things are going to be okay. The ennui, the angst, they vanish into thin air like the notifications screen on your phone when you hit ALL CLEAR.

After sex, I can go 30 minutes without checking Facebook. Would I lie to you?

But then it’s back: lust. Beautiful, poetic, prosaic, horny and exquisite, lust. Profound in its depths, banal in its ubiquitousness, lust.

Do you ever catch yourself checking out a hot guy and then notice, with your peripheral vision, some other scrub doing the same? I do. It dampens my excitement when I realize I’m not the only Angela Chase in the room. Where have all the Jordan Catelanos gone?

There’s a reason they call it beast mode. Sometimes I think I go to the gym just so I can eat. A lot. Not because I’m afraid that all the studfinders ain’t gonna call no fat gurl, but because I love the feeling of fueling up and fueling down. It’s a type of indulgence you know. Indulging in overeating, indulging in over-exercising. Indulging in being too big for your britches and too sexy for your oops I did it again not-so-accidentally snug-fit retro classic tee. Indulging in the vain pursuit of wanting men, women and domesticated animals to turn their heads when you walk by. We’re only human, after all. And humans are basically apes, with better hygiene.

Did you know that the modern English word “appetite” is actually ancient Latin for “ape titties?” I’m a total breast man I can dig it.

“Ap*pe*tite” – noun. “A natural desire to satisfy a bodily need, especially food.”

Hunger for sex is as natural as hunger for food, and, in modern life, it is equally conducive to perversion and chronic mental disability. I ain’t no psychiatrist; I ain’t no doctor with degrees. But it don’t take too much IQ to follow these tips from me:

Word on the street is, even women whose vaginas have fallen out want it. Whatever it is. Don’t judge yourself, Judy. God made you gay and insatiable for a reason. I hear she makes no mistakes.

During season 1 of HBO’s “Six Feer Under,” the semi-closeted David Fischer is talking to a dead porn star, like you do. She asks him if he thinks God cares if he has sex with men. Even a lot of men. David says, “I think God appreciates it when love is involved.” At this, the wise and prematurely deceased actress quips, “Oh, honey. I loved every man I ever fucked while I was fucking him.”

Touché, but still. WHILE she was. Not afterwards. Not forevermore. Not with enough force or volume to fill a person up, spiritually. Only you can do that. Or your higher power. Or your family or your friends or your loved ones or your religion or your faith or your faithful master shaman. You see where I’m going with this? Good.

If he’s cute, go for it. Don’t worry about what other people will think or what you thought you’d be watching on telly tonight. Listen to your heart listen to your soul listen to your mind listen to your body. If three out of four say yes, then just do it. Him.

Every relationship needs to breathe. This includes your relationship with yourself. That’s why you get out of the house: to get out of your head. This also includes your relationship with your lovers and with self-love wink wink.

It’s okay to give it a rest every once in a while. Life may be a buffet, but you don’t always have to go back for seconds. It’s okay to stop eating when you’re full.

Bon appetite!

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