Monkey Wrench

So...I'll give you a taste of something light. Actually, something quite fattening. And delicious. And cheesy.
Hey...I'm a tart at heart.

Bon appetit...

Oh, the Sweet Sorrows of Cheesecake

A woman’s journey of self-discovery through dessert.

Because you don't live near a bakery doesn't mean you have to go without cheesecake.
-Hedy Lamarr

Do you remember when you lost your virginity? C’mon, think back and relive that horrible and awkward experience. Alright, now add a piece of cheesecake to the lovemaking. I don’t care what you do with it – eat it, smear it, roll around in it – just add it to the intercourse and tell me how much better the sex got.

Thought so.

Sex, like relationships, always seems to be lacking. But once you add a piece of dessert in the mix – BOOM – you got yourself a damn masterpiece. Amazing, ain’t it? I mean, let’s be honest, cheesecake is a dessert unlike any other – a dessert that comes in so many different flavors and styles, to compare it to anything else would not fully justify the wonders of such perfection. I myself didn’t understand the power of the pastry until first taste. And man, did it taste good.

Allow me to relive this magical experience. Reader discretion is advised:

It started at The Cheesecake Factory in Cambridge, Mass. I was around fifteen and my naïveté about my surroundings, and the world as a whole was holding me back, preventing me from experiencing “adult things,” or at least that’s what my parents called them. I had no idea what rite of passage awaited me behind the giant oak doors to the restaurant. Sweating with anticipation, I turned the enormous bronze doorknob, only to be met with an aroma I’ve never experienced before. I started to panic. What were these feelings? In front of me sat the handsome suitors. There I was, a cheesecake virgin being seduced by the wooers of all Don Juan’s. It was the key lime that made me break.

It only took me a mere 30 minutes to make me “give it up.” And let me tell you, it was a sloppy one. We were both a little awkward, mostly me. I didn’t know how to start and where to end. I was loud, too. People stared, and I’m sure they knew I was a first-timer. I didn’t care. I loved every minute of it. Really. I became a woman that day.

Yes, a simple “coming of age” story, but simplicity doesn’t mean unoriginality. Still, shortly after my adventure to The Cheesecake Factory, the cheese and I grew distant. Why, you ask? It made me fat. It made me hate myself. My thighs started to resemble cottage cheese. It was an addiction I had to break. So I stopped calling. My visits became less and less frequent. I guess you can say we started to fight. I didn’t exactly “cheat” on the cheesecake, but soon I developed an attraction for carrot cake (those grated carrots did a number on me). All in all, we developed a sort of love-hate relationship. When it was there, staring at me in the face, tempting me to eat and enjoy, I hated it. I wanted nothing to do with the cheese’s provoking seduction and heartless taste that stained my lips and soul and made me want more of it when I knew, deep inside, my urge had to be controlled.

This pattern of self-pity and regret continued until we became acquainted again. I’ll never forget it. It was the first time I came back to The Cheesecake Factory since my confection affinity, and there it was, sprawled out on the dessert tray like some oversexed slut. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to avoid the tart hussy at first, but it made its presence known. We made eye contact. I smiled. And then I broke. We did it right there on the counter.

Soon I accepted the fact that I couldn’t live without cheesecake. With the distance put between us, I craved it more and more. These feelings are still present to this day. Am I weird? Maybe. But that’s beside the point. Cheesecake will always have a special place in my heart, over relationships and sex. I’m just hoping my future spouse won’t get jealous.