By Kevin Assam
Photo: Armando Ascorve Morales

Meatloaf! No. Roast Beef. Clearly my lesbian wife’s Rocky Horror Picture Show bash was still on my mind. Happy birthday, Beth! But this column involves a more mysterious lady in my life. Across the table sat my sometimes lesbian but mostly straight relationship expert. She was a semi-retired practicing witch too young to lead a coven but just old enough to qualify as experienced in the art community and more importantly handle my asinine questions and reasoning.

As we munched on our tender and tasteless octopus at an overhyped downtown spot, she relayed with great detail what the concept of “Roast Beef” was. I will spare this predominantly male audience the gory details and ask that you do not envision a roast beef sandwich — meat spewing out of the bun — and do not proceed to compare that to the anatomy of a certain lady part. Apparently, a mutual lesbian friend and a straight male acquaintance had both warned her that should she ever encounter this “meat delicacy” in her sexual exploits, she should roll the hell up and run for her god damn life.

Skewering the improved in taste bacon wrapped dates I remembered the popular pieces by The Guardian titled Me and My Penis and Me and My Vulva, which explored the various shapes, sizes, and colors of our nether regions through 100 photos of bare men and women respectively. As an anal virgin — and virgin in general in my eyes — my understanding of the aesthetics of sexual organs is pretty innocent. I once triumphantly pointed to a moderately sized chocolate covered pretzel stick in an iconic sweet shoppe and proudly remarked that I had finally found something that realistically looked like my snickerdoodle. The uproar that followed in the store by my then friends after they collected themselves from the floor made me feel a bit embarrassed. I thought a chocolate submerged pretzel stick was not exactly a french fry. Even if it was, is that a problem? It would probably mean I couldn’t top a man or woman. However, that would still leave the options of bottoming, oral, or cuddling.

As men, we do not all bear shafts that look perpetually smooth, rounded, and cohesive: a ripe extension of mainstream beauty cues of six packs and six feet statures. So as the quasi-witch dug into our barely appetizing mishmash of Mozzarella Caprese Salad I found myself agreeing with her heterosexual sentiments on “Roast Beef.” If you’re active and healthy enough to encounter upon an erotic romp and your playmate happens to have an unconventionally shaped albeit clean Picasso-esque banana or overflowing roast beef sandwich pleasure tunnel maybe you shouldn’t run. Maybe you shouldn’t roll on up out of there leaving untold mental carnage on someone who will never forget that moment of body shaming. Perhaps in the case of women you can overlook the more artistic garnishes and focus on the meat of the platter. Perhaps in the case of men you can think of it as certain mishandled fruit or produce — a little dinged or blemished but just as tasty once everything is unpeeled.

Or maybe we should run? Just like I wanted to from that meal. We never did order dessert.

Kevin is a middling writer but top notch interviewer. His ideas on love and relationships are mostly fueled by his wild imagination. He often orders dessert first.