Olive, My Love
How to cure an olive fetish.
by Ashlea Halpern,
I never met an olive I didn’t like. Whether they’re wrinkly and chewy with a bitter aftertaste or marble-smooth and sopping with brine, I love tugging them off a toothpick with my teeth, squeezing them between my lips and nibbling the pit like a dog gnaws a bone. I enjoy olives so much, in fact, I cannot eat them in public, for I am an embarrassment to my dining companions: contorting my face, rolling my eyes and moaning like I’ve just been DP’d beneath the table.
As a food editor and sex columnist, I can’t tell if my fruity obsession is motivated more by gastronomic hedonism or some bizarre fetishism. The desire to get fucked in a tub full of olives does not strike me as strange; then again, I’ve been known to give coffee-sugar handjobs and incorporate yellow mustard and Tabasco sauce into my lovemaking. More recently, my boyfriend lay naked on the kitchen floor while I stood over him pelting eggs and pitching handfuls of flour. (We never did get that security deposit back.)
Google tells me there is something called the Wet and Messy fetish (aka WAM or “sploshing”). Bill Shipton, publisher of Britain’s Splosh! magazine, blames it on latent childhood desires to partake in verboten food fights and/or break taboos about propriety. He also jokes that sploshing is one of the few fetishes where participants can buy anything and everything they need at the local grocer.
When I spring the olive idea on Andy, he’s less than enthused. I explain that olives have long been touted for their aphrodisiacal qualities. Drunk in teaspoon amounts, the oil helps relieve constipation. Mixed with vinegar, it kills lice. These are not good selling points.
Even so, Andy’ll try anything once. After a midnight trip to a corner bodega, we make our way home carrying nine jars of Goya queen Spanish olives, four huge cans of Baktat green olives, four jars of fancy Divina olives stuffed variously with sweet peppers, feta cheese and blue cheese, and a tall bottle of EVOO. Eighteen pounds of olives – total $77.94.
I start by scrubbing the tub (you wouldn’t eat off it otherwise) and notice the stopper has gone missing; Andy suggests plugging it with a sock. Already I’m losing my appetite.
I demand Andy strip down and take a seat. I then dump can after can, bottle after bottle onto his naked, shivering body. His penis has almost turned inside itself, and he looks miserable. I’m saddened that after emptying nearly 1,500 olives into the tub, they’ve barely coated the bottom.
The oil itself makes us look greased and muscle-y, like weight lifters in the Mr. World competition. The olives double as decent massage tools, and I rake handfuls up and down Andy’s back, squishing them with my fingernails and flinging the mangled bits against his chest. Oral is out of the question – everything has that oceanic taste; shaving knicks are starting to burn. I resist my urge to push the olives up his ass and instead pursue straight bathtub sex. It’s exciting, but my head drifts thinking of other possibilities – a tub full of Tastykakes, mashed bananas or Chef Boyardee ravioli.
As the morning grows near and exhaust takes hold, I survey the aftermath. The toilet seat and doorknob are slick with oil. Bits of olive meat fleck the mirror. We slide wherever we walk. The smell, salty and pungent, hits me like a wet towel. I gag using two hands to scoop the mess into a trash bag.
The next day, we go for Mexican. I order a Bloody Mary, but reconsider when I see the garnish. I am officially over olives.