For years I went through the same things as everyone else: the stress of failed relationships, the feelings of inadequacy, the mediocre sex without the gratifying hint of parsley and Parmesan cheese to finish it off.
Sometimes I would lie awake at night in a tub of heavy cream, hoping that some valiant chef would come and toss me around in a mound of thick hand-cut pasta.
For too long I subdued my urges to be with my one true love. Whenever my mother would make Fettuccine Alfredo I would take to my room in shame. How could I hide my feelings for such a beautiful, sensual dish? Denying my emotions was killing me inside, melting my heart the way six tablespoons of butter melts into a sea of carbs.
Deep down I knew it was meant to be. That’s why I gave up dating humans and dedicated my love life solely to Fettuccine Alfredo.
There is nothing that turns me on quite like a bowl of steaming hot fettuccine smothered in a creamy, succulent sauce. When I want it rough, Alfredo gives it to me al dente; when I want it soft, he’ll let it boil for an extra minute or two. He always knows just how long to let it boil.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be a grain of black pepper heaved about on a bed of doughy lust, even if just for a moment.
The feeling of a moist, flat noodle wrapped around my thighs pleases me the way no man or woman ever could.
I long to carry his rich Tuscan seed in my womb. One day I will bear a child by my lover and we shall call him Lorenzo, and we will run away to a sleepy village on the coast, leaving behind this cruel world that judges us for who we truly are.
Without Fettuccine Alfredo my heart would bleed like starchy water through a strainer. Our relationship is more than just sex. It is love, and I would cross an ocean of balsamic vinaigrette just to be with him.