By Nora Robertson
1. Mousse makes me think of frozen desire. Whip a pint of heavy cream into a frenzy of stiff peaks. A soufflé would be lighter, more prone to deflation. In a shop window this afternoon, I saw the whispering dress, Marilyn Monroe shoulders and a layered cotton skirt cinched in tight. Tonight you told me you wanted me to masturbate in front of a room full of people, on a couch or a stage, and our hips buckled together, swollen spots rubbed raw.
2. In a double boiler, melt splinters of chocolate, half a pound, the darker the better. The dress fit me perfectly, size 6 though I am not a size 6. I am not what I’m supposed to be. I was not supposed to want a gypsy rose skirt too, same layers of black tulle flaring off the hip like castanets are clacking in each of my palms. Baby, I’ll do anything you want me to. The rest of the day, a tug in my groin suggested esparadilles, a sangria top, accessories. I flipped over on top. I’m your slut, your slit, your bitch. He reached up to tuck my hair behind my ear, brushing waves back behind my shoulders so he can see me better. Stir in orange flower water to taste, vanilla and for piquancy, for a little fight, a pinch of chile.
3. Working quickly, fold the chocolate into the hard tufts of cream. Use a light hand or the peaks will begin to disintegrate. Running back to the shop, I slid the plastic card across the glass of the register and hoarsely whispered, I’ll take them both. The shop woman seemed mildly surprised. If I don’t, I told her, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.
4. Spoon the mousse into individual ramekins, ½ cup each, and chill. The mixture will become sturdy. Afterwards, I couldn’t sleep. The sky outside grew steeped in weak light. I’m a lifelong masturbator. Now all I can do is masturbate, an insomnia of flesh shivering for release, next to your supine body. Set one serving in front of each diner, a soupçon of crème anglaise, a basil leaf, exactly one portion per person, enough.
Originally published in Monkeybicycle, and podcast online.