What were you thinking when you ordered me!? Oh sure, you can eat me out of the palm of your hand and I can see how that might be intriguing for a man of your stature. But in public? And to take me out in a nice restaurant…ballsy. I’m not saying I don’t deserve to be treated like a lady, but even I know the slurping involved as you lift me with your tongue and slide me past your lips is a bit too much for a hoity toity five-star joint. To really enjoy my flavor you need to shoot for a place where the white on the table is made of butcher paper, not linens. You might be asking, “then why did they put her on the menu?” That was a test. A test of your manhood …your immunity to temptation. You failed, by the way. Don’t you know that you can’t truly enjoy something as delectable as me in an eatery known more for ambiance than down and dirty fun? I should be cradled in the clutch of your hand, smelled upon like a fine wine, and embraced…savored. You shouldn’t have to hit me like a shot of Tequila to avoid the disapproving stares from the woman in the corner who clearly needs to loosen her collar before it makes her eyes bulge permanently. You shouldn’t have to feel guilty for loving the feel of me at the back of your throat. And you certainly shouldn’t rush the pleasure of tasting me for the first time. For all that is right in the world, don’t rush.