I am given to understand that there are men who take their laptops into toilet stalls to look at naked breasts and vulvae and tongues and plastics in all sorts of combinations. I’m also told that there are women who log onto Facebook every day to exchange flirtations with strange men and old high school crushes. I’ve heard about busy executives dashing to the office bathrooms for a quick snort of cocaine before a big meeting.
People have their guilty pleasures, their carnal passions that drive them to both conceal and consume greedily that which shames and fuels them.
I am one of these people, with a deep lustful longing quenched only by sweet sticky moistness, forbidden and locked away.
I am driven by Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed Milk. When I open a can for a recipe it is all i can do to keep from plunging a finger into its clinging creamy wetness, dripping pearls of sugared bliss onto my tongue and gliding my lips around spoonsful of thick velvet. Pure delight, locked away in aluminium cans and intended only for pies and sauces and chewy cookie bars. It is not at all designed to be drunk languidly from crystal glasses or spooned in soft moundsful. It is not intended to be greedily lapped at by a crazed woman in her middle years who longs for its forbidden nectar.
I know I should be ashamed and should not tell the world how I feel. I know I should not describe the fiery envy I felt upon reading The English Patient and discovering how that adulterous Nazi pilot was nursed back to health with straws stuck into can after can of my beloved Eagle Brand. But I can’t now after 30 years of entanglement deny my love of this glorious goo.
Today I made a recipe calling for one can, and nearly that whole can made it into the cake. There was only a bit left clinging to the bowl, beaten bright yellow with the yolk of an egg, that made it directly to my mouth. And that one bit was worth all the anticipation in the world.