I was flirting with a very good-looking young man on Saturday night who was drinking a glass of a cloudy yellow substance. After watching him take a few swigs, I asked him what it was because it looked entirely unappetizing.
“Pineapple juice,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he raised his glass. He looked at me over the rim as he took a deep drink, then made the ‘ah’ sound and brought the glass down. “You know what they say about pineapple juice.” He smacked his lips, then licked the upper one in a particularly attractive way.
I smiled as I watched his tongue. No, I didn’t know what they say about pineapple juice and so asked, “Precisely what do they say about pineapple juice?” I’m always one to admit ignorance because I’m so over giving a shit what others think. I’d rather know for sure than fake it.
He demurred. He was afraid of sounding crude, no doubt. If he’d only known who was doing the asking. . .
Another man listening in on the conversation piped up, “It’s an aphrodisiac, isn’t it?”
“It may be,” said the hottie, warily. “But that’s not what they say.” He took another deep drink.
Alright, now I wasn’t about to give up. I was like a Jack Russell after a red rubber ball. After all, I am a woman and my curiosity was piqued. “What do they say?”
The barkeep began listening in because he sensed my interest in the matter.
After about two more minutes of coyness, the hottie finally worked up the nerve and told me: pineapple juice is supposed to make a man’s semen more palatable.
You know me. Immediately, the wheels began turning. “How long does it take to work?” I asked.
“I bet it works well if you mix it with papaya,” said the eavesdropping man.
Everyone ignored the eavesdropping man.
“How long?” The hottie looked at me blankly. “About forty-eight hours.”
The barkeep laughed and said to the hottie, “I’ll leave the expertise to you as I know nothing about tasting semen.”
The hottie mumbled something in reply that I didn’t quite catch. I would guess it was something along the lines of fuck-you-asshole.
After a few more questions from me, the hottie admitted he didn’t know how long it took, but pointed out that he drank it every day and bought at least one pineapple a week. It was a very welcome hint to lead him down the primrose path, but the wheels of Titania’s mind were turning pretty fast at that point.
I played with the stem of my wineglass for a moment, stroking it between my fingers. “Given the replenishment factor of well-emptied male genitalia, about forty-eight hours sounds right.” I laughed. “But I suppose an experiment would be in order. “
“That would take a commitment,” said the barkeep.
“A short commitment,” I corrected him.
“Hel-lo.” The barkeep smiled wickedly. He knows who’d been doing the asking.
Hence, I propose an experiment.
Not only do I need to know whether this urban myth is true, but, if it is true, I need to know how long it takes for the taste transition to come about (so to speak) and whether it is to my liking. Call it an experiment for the enrichment of human knowledge or call it pure fun, I don’t care which: I have a burning, pressing curiosity and a need to know. (Speaking of need to know, don’t ask me what happened with the hottie. I’m not tellin’. I don’t put everything in here.)
Admittedly, the results of any such experiment would be entirely subjective. And I suppose I am not really the ideal woman for the job of taster. Why? Because I’ve never disliked the taste of semen. You see, each man is different: the particular consistently and flavor of his jism is part of what makes him unique. I am rather a sommelier when it comes to my lovers: the smells and tastes of sweat, semen, saliva, and skin are as much of the experience of sex as are the sound of a man’s voice, how his hands and body move, his particular peccadilloes or his choice of pet names for my pussy. So maybe I am not the ideal observer, but I am the curious one and this experiment is MY brainchild, so I get to be the taster simply because I can be.
As for tastees, that is another matter. To provide for the experiment and a control, it would take two men who are presently non-pineapple-juice drinkers: one who could be trusted to imbibe for an indeterminate period of time, and one who could be trusted not to imbibe for just as long. The particular tasty qualities of each being described and committed to memory and/or paper, one tastee would begin to drink the juice at the rate of, say, sixteen ounces a day, and the other would go about his business and diet as usual, taking care not to ingest pineapple products inadvertently. We’ll call the pineapple juice drinker Mr. Blue and the non-drinker Mr. Mauve. (Oh, come on, if all you have to do is lay there and get blown, there has to be a downside or we’ll spend the whole time arguing about who gets to be the lazy one and just read food labels!) The magic might work in forty-eight hours or it may take quite some time, but I’d be willing to make a short term commitment of, say, a month? And when I say Mr. Blue has to be trustworthy, I mean he has to be trustworthy: no skipping drinking days just to prolong the experiment, buster.
Any volunteers? Those willing to return the flavor will receive special consideration.
Just see if you can spot me in the crowd at my usual haunts after ten or so on Friday or Saturday this weekend. Make it known you are willing to make the sacrifice in the interests of science. I might take you up on it. Just understand I always reserve the right to veto any comers. So to speak.
Confessions of a Denver Cougar 