Sex in a Cup

Rosie and I agreed John Gray was so wrong.

That’s because the best-selling author of ‘Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus’ had never met Ron. 

“Wait, he does your laundry for you?” Rosie squealed with wide-eyed disbelief while I whipped a cup of heavy cream with the confectioner’s sugar into stiff peaks. 

“He hates the way I fold clothes. Says I just wad them up.” Rosie had an incredulous look on her face, and, really, who could blame her? 

“I know, sounds cringey, like I ought to be ashamed of myself for not knowing how to properly fold laundry.”

“I’m trying not to sip my coffee right now because if I did, I’d spew it all over you.”

Rosie was Ken Joplin’s pint-size, pixie-faced wife and chef of Joplin’s Jazz, a Tavern that they both owned on Main Street 

I had met them both the first night I arrived in the sleepy college town of Durham, New Hampshire, in search of comfort food. It was also then I met Ron Mitchell, a shy assistant professor who taught geology at the University of New Hampshire, which was right in the heart of town.

 I had Rosie over one afternoon to demonstrate how to make a Scottish chocolate and orange mouse dessert with a single-malt Scotch flambe—in case she wanted to add it to her menu at the bar. She’d wanted to elevate her offerings to cater to the faculty at UNH and its suit-and-tie academes like the president, the provost, and the chancellor, so they wouldn’t have to drive to Portsmouth or even to Boston. Because outside of the pizza joint, Chinese takeout, and the Dairy Bar, which didn’t serve dinner, there wasn’t much to offer the local clientele by way of white tablecloth dining.

But the real reason she was here was to give me one of those come-to-Jesus chats about how wrong I was to think Ron and I were only having a short-term fling, even if we had moved in together as a couple.

Ron knows I was on sabbatical and that at the end of the year, I had to return to my high-pressure job as CEO of a large advertising and media company.

He, on the other hand, was nearing the end of his Ph.D. journey and was scheduled to defend his dissertation in a couple of months. Getting his doctorate degree and becoming a full professor was a dream of his, and it was now within his reach. He was going nowhere.

“He says I suck at folding clothes. So, I’ve been barred from doing it. I think that might have been the only serious fight we’ve had since he moved in,” I said, spooning the whisky-soaked chocolate mousse into cups and then carefully swirling the whipped cream to a soft, curling peak at its tip. 

“So let me get this straight. He does all the yard work. Fixes stuff in the house. Washes your car. Vacuum the house. And does the laundry? And you’re afraid of making a long-term commitment to him? What’s wrong with you?” Rosie finally took a sip of her black brew and eyed me like I’d sprouted a second head. 

Ron wasn’t anything like a typical boyfriend. And I’m not talking about the whole grunting and farting or other unromantic bodily functions that come to the fore when a couple begins living together. Ron has a kind heart and is a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s pretty chill, which has been a nice complement to my oft-intense manic-depressive state of mind.

He is deeply empathetic, which really is a gift, almost on a mystical level. He seems to just know me—what’s in my soul, the tragedy of my past, the pressures of my job.

“I’m a mess, that’s what’s wrong with me. And really, he has no business being with me and all my emotional baggage. It’s frightening if I let myself think about it too much.”

“And that’s what’s wrong with you. Why don’t you just push all that emotional garbage into your past, keep it there, and enjoy your romance because seriously, I could slap you for thinking otherwise.”

My mouth curved in a smile at Rosie’s jealousy while I focused on gently lacing the cream with a teaspoon of single malt Scotch whiskey, then lit it with a Bic lighter. The alcohol ignited with a whoosh, and Rosie clapped.

“Impressive,” she said, momentarily dropping the subject. 

I let the flames fade to a wafting smoke, grated the zest of an orange over it, and then gently set a curled sliver of its rind on top.

“Voila, madame! Your Scottish chocolate and orange mousse flambe,” I announced, setting it before her.

Rosie took a spoonful of the sinful concoction I created, moaned deeply, and then released a breathy sigh.

“Mmmmm… Oh my God, Raine. Did you just create sex in a cup?” She rolled her eyes as if peaking with an orgasm, and I smiled. 

“Jesus! No wonder Ron worships you,” she said, shaking her head while digging in for more. “What the fuck did you put in this? You must have added something when I wasn’t looking.”

“I can’t tell you. It’s my father’s secret ingredient. He guards them like gold bars in Fort Knox.”

My Japanese-American father owns the famed Shogun in Beverly Hills, where I was born and raised, which had garnered a Michelin Star several years ago for his fusion of Scottish and Japanese creations inspired by my mother’s ancient Scottish Highland heritage and his own Nissei roots. 

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to serve it to my diners?” Rosie cried.

“You don’t need the secret ingredient. You wouldn’t want a dining room full of people moaning, do you?”

“But then I can’t call it Sex in a Cup.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and wagged her spoon, trying to identify the flavors as she rolled her tongue around her mouth to guess the unusual ingredient. 

“It’s savory, a hint of smoke but not from the Scotch. But there’s a salty contrast here. A flaky texture with a subtle crisp that… um-mm-mmm… melts rather than crunches.” She runs her tongue across her lips. “It has a certain…what’s that French term? I can’t say it.”

“Je ne sais quoi,” I replied in my not-so-perfect French accent.

“Damn, I need a cigarette now.” She said, fanning her face with her palm. “I gotta get Jops to try this.”

“Well, you can bring him a cup. There’s some leftover in the bowl with a bit of the secret ingredient.”

“Has Ron tried this yet?”

“Nah-uh.” 

“You realize you’re going to ruin him for any other woman,” Rosie said, returning to the topic of my love life. “Which baffles me that you won’t commit to a future with one hot dude who is every woman’s prince charming and sexual fantasy.”

“Because I’ve got to go back to my life in New York and all that madness. I made a commitment to all my colleagues that I would return and not abandon them to the wolves of Wall Street.”

“So you put him in your pocket and take him with you. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being a kept man.”

“Rosie, he’ll be so unhappy in New York. I wouldn’t want that for him. He’s going to end up hating me in the end. Why wait until that happens? I would rather we say our goodbyes while we have fond memories to remember each other.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. She set her dessert cup on the kitchen counter, rattling the spoon inside, and looked at me stone-faced. 

I raised my brows in anticipation of what she had to say, still licking my own spoon.

“Go on… what?”

“Je nay ze… I can’t say it.” She shook her head, straightening up. “Anyway…”

She grabbed the bowl of left-over mousse (and there was enough for two more servings) and said, “I believe I have an appointment with my husband. In the privacy of his office.” And then scuttled out the door. In somewhat of a rush.

***

Ron came in through the backdoor, wiped his feet, then kicked off his loafers.

“Hey. I just saw Rosie leave,” he said, hanging his coat on a peg by the door.

I was clearing away the dishes and tools from my earlier dessert prep with Rosie.

“Hey. Yeah. She was here. Did you guys catch up?”

“No. She seemed in a hurry to get back to the bar, I guess.”

“I showed her how to make a Scottish chocolate and orange mousse with a Scotch flambe.”

“Oh? Anything left for me?”

I went to the fridge and retrieved one cup I’d prepped for him.

“You’re lucky ‘cause Rosie left with the rest of it.”

“I thought I saw her carrying something. Must be amazing then.”

“Uh-huh.” I performed the same ritual with the flambe for him. 

“Wow!” He said, then leaned into me for a kiss. 

But before he could grab a spoon and dig in, I took it away and headed for the stairs.

“Wait!” he cried. “Where’re you going with that?” 

My lips curved upward impishly. “To show you the proper way to enjoy Scottish chocolate and orange mousse. The way we Scots eat it.”

“Oh?” I kept climbing the stairs. Slowly. And then... 

“Oh!” He said and followed me upstairs to the bedroom.

***

Later… much… much… later…

“What the hell was in that dessert?” Ron asked, breathless and sweaty.

“Sex in a cup,” I whispered, rolling on top of him and licking leftover smears of whipped cream off his chest.

“Jesus, Raine. You just decimated me.”

“Mmm…” He groaned, kissing me again. “You taste deliciously sweet and sticky.”

“So sticky that the bedsheets are sticking to me.”

“Sounds like we might need to shower… together. You’ll need someone to soap off the cream from places you can’t… uhm… reach,” he said, breathing heavily while continuing to graze my skin.

“And then somebody will have to do laundry afterwards.”

“Hmmm… with pleasure,” said he, rolling me onto my back, nudging my legs apart.

“But later. Much…” he laved my right nipple. “Much…” then the left one. “Later,” he sighed as he entered my still slick slippery center.

Maybe Rosie was right. I could just slip Ron into my pocket and take him with me.