Once, at the youthful age of 24, I was looking at an article about an alcoholic cream bar. The premise of the article was utterly whatever, but I was in it for the photos. I looked at that scoop of vanilla–soft, wrinkled, slightly off-white–and I needed more. I googled image searched “scoops of ice cream” and scrolled.
Minutes, hours, days, centuries later I was still looking and sure as shit I was turned on.
I thought I had already plumbed the depths of my sexual interests and kinks but apparently not. Being the sexually open-minded flower that I am, I rolled with it. At home, porn on my phone and ice cream photos up on my computer screen, hell yeah.
Then I learned something I probably really should have known by now. That shit is probably mashed potatoes.
Fuck this world. That vanilla, that gorgeous, gorgeous scoop of vanilla ice cream. Turns out that shit belongs in the buffet at a retirement home, smothered in brown goo that isn’t hot fudge.
I had been catfished. What I thought I knew just wasn’t true. But why should it matter? The point was the sexy, sexy visual right? The visual of the pink-on-white-on-blue that comes from the trifecta of strawberry, vanilla, and cotton candy that got me in all the right places. That should be the only thing that matters. And if it takes geriatric culinary trickery to get there, that should be fine.
But it wasn’t. That is because one of the greater mysteries of the universe is why we are turned on by the things that turn us on. Why does calling someone “daddy” elicit a completely different response than calling someone “dad?” Why does side boob do it for some but side butt cheek is the only way to go for others? Why does one food item cause an avalanche of wetness while the other causes the vagina to shrivel up and crawl back inside the cave?
I don’t have the answer but I know that ice cream will never be the same again.