Men will never understand the obsession women have with chocolate, or why we’d even think twice about choosing a chocolate dipped strawberry over sex. There’s just no explaining the complete satisfaction minus emotional drama that comes from indulging our chocolate lust.
Now that I’m in my fifties and have experienced the myriad forms that lust takes, I can truthfully say that chocolate is often my vice of choice. Just for starters: you never have to worry that chocolate will reject you, or forget to call after a particularly steamy night in the sack. Chocolate is always there when you need it, especially in times when men most choose to be unavailable: i.e., your mother drops by for an extended visit with no day of departure set, or your roots are showing and you were just notified that the press is on its way for a publicity photo (this one has actually happened to me.) Chocolate loves us whether we’re having a fat day, suffering from menopausal brain freeze, or have developed age lines resembling the plains of Nazca. Chocolate never disappears when we want to watch Pride and Prejudice for the fiftieth time, and it never sulks off to its “man cave” when we won’t let it watch football. In short, chocolate is the perfect man. Delicious. Comforting. Always at our disposal.
