Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I slowly surface from an incredible dream involving Channing Tatum giving me a full body massage. The loud sounds continue. I roll over and feel crumbs bite into my left cheek. It’s 3 am on a Tuesday morning, and my boyfriend is eating food in our bed again.
It had almost become a ritual with him. His bouts of insomnia would inevitably keep him up until the wee hours of the morning, and he would pass the time watching Breaking Bad on his laptop while eating a snack. My own co-dependence required him to stay in bed with me the whole night through, whether he was sleeping or not, so I learned to tune out the sound of Walter White going on a rampage. The noise wasn’t what bothered me. It was the food. It was choking on a fine powder of Dorito dust. It was waking up to find flecks of chocolate dotting my skin like discolored freckles. It was obsessively checking the white down comforter for stains from pizza grease. It was driving me absolutely insane.
We had been living together for almost a year. It was an easy transition from “girls don’t fart” feminine mystery to “pooping with the door open” nonchalance. We understood each other so completely that we often finished each other’s sentences, sometimes in foreign languages. We favored the same foods, music, and movies. We were the same person in two different bodies with mismatched genitals. We were a great couple. The only thing that stood in the way of perfect harmony was our oppositional views on eating in the bedroom.
Our queen-sized mattress became a battle ground for our nightly arguments. I would threaten, plead, or flat our order him not to munch in any place besides the kitchen. He would acquiesce, at least until I had fallen asleep, and then the feasting would begin. I’d wake up every morning brushing off crumbs and cursing under my breath.
This went on for some time, until the fateful night we did shots of whiskey. By midnight I was done for. My gentlemanly boyfriend walked me home, took my shoes off, and tucked me into bed. It was then the craving took over. Not your usual, “I could use a salad with dressing on the side” type hunger. It was the “fried peanut butter and salami with pickles” type of desire, one that consumed me so completely that passing out was not an option until the need had been satisfied.
We decided to order a pizza from our favorite place. When it arrived an hour later, I realized that I was so drunk that sitting upright would be difficult. Hauling myself all the way into the kitchen would be impossible.
So I gave in.
I allowed us to eat in our bedroom, with the condition that he put a towel down underneath the pizza box. A whole new world opened up to me. He was right. Not only did food taste better in bed, but it was almost heavenly when you were drunk and half naked. Now we eat in bed together nearly every weekend, and all my bitching has ceased. Stains and crumbs be damned.