Cake !
Give me my cake.
I want the creamy frosting. I want the sweet sugar high. I want the cream filled center
dripping down my chin. I want the flour and eggs that make up the flavorful body that
holds the whole thing together. I want it to emote flavor so that my tongue is bathed
in its epicurean delights. I want to revel in its sweetness. I want to roll in it like
a dog rolls in the grass on a sunny day. I want to stretch my limbs in pure butter and
powdered sugar. I want to be covered with cake. I want it externally as much as I want
it internally. I want to wear my desire like a badge of honor, shown to all those who
would envy me my sinfully delicious cake. I want the ingredients mixed with care
and love, I want them folded together like a blanket of sweet caring and nurture. I can
see the sweetness as in enfolds me. I can feel the warmth as it incases me in its warm
and loving embrace. It calls out to me, my cake. It sings to me a lullaby of sweet and
tender fulfillment. It caresses my palette with a flavor rich and divine. The want and
desire for my cake is savage and lustful, rearing its head like a majestic lion, powerful
over its captive prey. My cake is sweetness. My cake is love and acceptance. My cake to
me is love personified. My desire to be one with another, my need to be satiated can be
satisfied by my cake. My cake accepts me as both lover and consumer, with no regrets nor
sorrow. My cake asks not for anything in return, its sole purpose being my contentment.
I sacrifice my cake on the altar of consumption. The combination of the ingredients and
flavors can drive a gown adult to lie and cheat. The promise of sweetness and the desire
for satisfaction can cause me to adulterate on my Chicken potpie. My dinner laments at
its inability to compete with the “other food’ in my life. My cake makes no excuses, it
shows itself proudly on display, tempting all that still have breath, to consume it. My
cake makes no distinction between age, race, and or nationality. We are all mortals in
its cunning sugary eyes. We are marked targets. My cake has no conscience. My cake would
just as soon it was eaten by you as by me. It would leave me for the first set of salivating
gums to set upon it. My cake would give its thick buttery frosting as self-sacrifice to
those too weak to resist its culinary powers. Those who like me can feel the cake pulling
on our insides, pulling on our minds and our souls, hear it screaming loudly to us at the
top of its rich fruit filled lungs, “EAT ME YOU FOOL.”
Give me my cake.
Forgive me for wallowing pigishly in excess after consuming the entire cake by myself.
Forgive me for saving you from the very same fate that would have befallen you, had I
not gotten there first. Forgive me for I have lustfully consumed the object of my desire.
I have sweet sugary crumbs and thick luscious filling still clinging to my face, as evidence
of my misdeeds. And lastly forgive the cake, as it knows not what it does. It is a sensual
masterpiece of delightful tastes and textures. My cake is a wonderful trip to the bakeshop
of delights, that once opened becomes a Pandora’s box of wanton desires and cravings.
Give me my cake.
Give me these things I desire. Let me feast on its gooey and creamy richness, fulfilling
my needs with gratuitous calories and thousands of grams of wonderfully delicious cholesterol.
It whores itself on a first come first consume basis, but hold it not in contempt. Hold it
high and take in its fragrant bouquet of sugars and spice. Take care for how you worship it,
for you shall be both master and slave to this man made delight. You shall sing high of its
flavors, and praise its maker, then so shall you mourn its passing. All too soon you will then
prostate yourself at the altar of excess, and worship the oven from which it came.
Dean Williams© 2003