Because every blog should include food and sex, right?

I think I’ve got the sex part nailed, so here’s some food. Specifically, my homemade sourdough bread (with a background of gum trees).  This is our daily bread, because it’s quick, easy, cheap, I know exactly what’s in it, and it tastes delicious.

If you want sex with your food, let me point you to an anthology from a few years back, Sex and Candy: 22 Succulent Stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Ooh look, it’s at a bargain price at the moment too.

There’s 22 stories of sweetness by some of my favorite authors between the covers (don’t miss “Kneading” by Shanna Germain or “Six Layers of Sweetness” by Donna George Storey).

I have a story in this collection too. “Rosehips are Red” is about the pleasures of making rosehip jelly. These days I don’t live where the wild roses grow (thank you, Nick Cave, for the song), so I’ll stick with making sourdough and grapefruit marmalade. In the meantime, here’s an extract from my story:

The next week we walk the fields again, our gumboots caked with mud. We skirt the field the farmer has plowed for winter wheat, duck under the barbed wire, and splash through the stream dividing the wheat from the cow pasture. Sammy, our retriever, crashes through the stream. We hear his bark, and the whir and clatter of a startled pheasant.

The low autumn sun burnishes your hair; the sunlight is weaker than the warmth in your eyes. I can see the rose hedge from a distance. The soft, pink petals are gone, trampled into the grass by the cows, but as we get closer, I can see the ripe, red pendants studding the hedge.

“Rosehips!” I exclaim, and snap one from the briar.

A thorn embeds itself in the fleshy part of my thumb, and there’s a drop of blood as vivid as the fruit. You meet my eyes and lift my hand. Your lips close around my wounded thumb, lapping the blood, soothing the puncture with your warmth. I close my eyes and remember those lips on other parts of my body: on my face, on my skin, on my breasts, between my legs. I remember your tongue and its wet, hot glide.

I cup the gravid fruit in my hands and a finger caresses its rotund shape. “Will you still love me when I look like this?” I ask.

We return the next day to harvest the hips. We bring two plastic ice cream tubs to put them in, but we forget the gloves. The briars catch in my hair, tug on my shirt, embed themselves in my fingers. You roll up your sleeves—it’s your favorite shirt, its moss green matches your eyes—and the tiny thorns scratch a pattern of weals on your forearms. They’re only superficial, they can’t hurt.

Green-eyed people are faery people, changelings left behind when the faeries steal a human child. Green eyes remind me of the ocean: they can be stormy and dangerous, or languid and gentle. Like you.

You bend to pick the rosehips from a low hanging patch of briar, and your shirt comes apart from your jeans, revealing a pale strip of flesh. Fine golden hairs cover your skin. I know how you love me to brush them lightly, with barely-there fingertips. It makes you catch your breath and shiver, as if those faeries that left you behind have danced across your flesh. I move closer, bend forward and let my long hair brush over your skin like their wings.

You’re startled, and jerk upright, and your shoulder connects with my chin. We both reel, rub our bruised parts, and then laugh at our clumsiness. My tub of rosehips falls to the ground unheeded as we drift together, arms finding familiar routes around each other’s waists, our hips aligning subtly, until I feel the fly of your jeans pressing into my belly. I slide my hips to and fro until it’s not only the fly I’m feeling.

I love that pressure as you swell against me. I love the long, hard ridge of your cock, and my answering rush of wetness. You grasp my hips, pull me closer, and kiss me. It’s a deep, drowning kiss, and I melt.

“Let’s go home,” I say. I want to be in our bed, with your hands on my bare skin.