How to Make Love to a Vegetarian

In the "granola bar" community of my small college town, there roamed a memorable bumper sticker proclaiming that "Vegetarians Taste Better." Given my charity work in the fight against foul vagina (a.k.a. "halitosis of the vajayjay"), I was obviously heartened by this alleged cure. But I seriously questioned its alluding premise: that vegetarians would make superior lovers.

My argument at the time was based on the most primitive notion of appetite -- that passions for the flesh would beget passions in the flesh. Swoop in on adjacent restaurant dates, I'd propose, and compare the plates -- one girl is polishing off lamb chops, while the other is poking through a side salad and baked potato.

Who would you rather share desert with?

I realized, of course, that I shouldn't confuse being vegetarian with being a lousy eater, or that vegetarians weren't "foodies." But even the most voracious veggie, I felt, would lack the animal spirit that only animal spirits could provide. And when I met the woman who would eventually become my wife (a terrific eater, mind you), the proof was in the pudding.

On our first date, I shared my philosophy that a comparative interest in food, dancing, and travel were clues to compatibility, and that in these core areas of appetite, rhythm, and adventurism, one would find the triumvirate of a lasting sex life. On our dream honeymoon, you might imagine, we ate fried chicken while krumping through the Amazon. And on so many of our sweet and wonderful days together, there was the marker of an indulgent meal, shared strategically -- surfing and turfing our way into the sunset.

But then one day, after years upon carnivore years, I kind of became a vegetarian too.* Did this mean that my wife would start banging the butcher at Whole Foods? Or that the climactic end to our evenings became the five-day forecast? Not yet. Even though our bond over bourguignon had been compromised, there was still plenty of jalepeno in the cornbread.

So now, in the quinoa years, our recipe has changed. We don't share forks as much, but we still go out, we still swap spit, and we still have our sunsets. Sometimes, when there's been a lot of wine, I like to light a few candles, turn on some "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives," and let the night be our oyster cracker.

Feeling light and energetic, we can still suck the marrow out of life.

* does not include in-law hosted affairs, Thanksgiving, sushi or certain business dinners / guy weekends.