My reaction to the recent research into the relative ‘buzz’-inducing qualities of chocolate and kissing was at first dismissive. On reflection, though, I came to feel that such research could add to the stock of human knowledge, only if conducted more rigorously and supervised more closely. Probably by me.
Perhaps I shall return with a statement of methodology. I do have some very interesting ideas for experimentation. The fundamental flaw in the research was that the buzz-seeking scientists overlooked one basic fact, namely that a bar of chocolate is an end in itself, but a kiss is the first step on the road to a much more important destination. Put another way, a kiss is merely an hors d’oeuvre, the prelude to the entrée.
Bearing that in mind, it seems odd that anyone should waste time counting serotonins released by the brain and putting a stop-watch on the duration of raised heartbeat. It’s a clear case of comparing chalk and cheese. Who would choose a bar of chocolate in preference to a kiss and what – on a good day – it leads to.
However, being a man who suffers the liberal curse of seeing the other point of view, I’ve been pondering how an obsession with chocolate can be preferable to a sexual relationship.
The first thought that comes to mind is that there is no need to install chocolate in your home in order to enjoy it frequently. And even if you do, will you ever hear a Mars Bar complain of being neglected when you go out to the pub; or call you a pig when you come home drunk and feeling peckish? No, chocolate is readily available, and furthermore it’s cheap. Since when does a Snickers bar expect half a lager and a packet of crisps before allowing you to nibble it?
And there is such a variety of brands. Chocolate can be very dark, coffee-coloured or milky white. It may be sweet or bitter, soft-centred, crunchy or creamy. It may be flavoured with peppermint or rum or liqueurs. You can eat it ice-cold or drink it piping hot.
And I’ve noticed that no kind of chocolate ever complains when you sample another. Have you ever been nagged by a Bounty bar because you wanted a Turkish delight for a change, or a Crème Egg once a year? A Kit-Kat is not going to make you feel guilty because you couldn’t resist a Cadbury’s Caramel when you saw that sexy rabbit advertising it.
A Crunchie bar doesn’t moan if it lies there untasted because you don’t fancy it, having wolfed down a bag of Chocolate Brazils on the way home from work, or a Galaxy look at you reproachfully when you leave it half-finished. A Toblerone doesn’t demand to be eaten twice or a Malteser complain that you ate it too quickly and thought only of your own pleasure.
Oh yes. I could be persuaded. Just imagine.
All the way home he has been conscious of the hard, neat package, surprisingly heavy in his jacket pocket, bumping against his hip. He goes up the stairs quickly, two at a time, and is panting slightly as he closes the door behind him.
He’s had to steel himself against the temptation to touch it, to hold it, afraid it might melt with the heat of his hand. But now the moment has come. His heart beats faster and appetite throbs urgently in the pit of his stomach.
He longs to tear off the flimsy wrapping, drop the shreds to the floor and fall upon the chocolate with greedy, voracious teeth. But no – wait. It will be better to wait. To delay the moment of satisfaction. He tenderly places the blue-clad object of his desire in the fridge.
He pours a drink and tries to think of other things, but his mind is constantly drawn back to the waiting chocolate. Cold and hard now, but how quickly it will soften for him.
Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. He always comes back to Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. The others offer novelty, variety, the excitement of discovery, but Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is his one true love
The room is dark. The single lamp throws his shadow falls across the waiting, expectant bar. It seems so tiny, so helpless, so yielding.
He fetches the peppermints. Peppermints will enhance the taste, heighten his pleasure. The hot, white disc burns against the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth. He picks up the chocolate.
He gently eases the sleeve of paper the length of the bar and gazes at the shiny underwrapping. The foil is crisp and tight, stretched over the ridges of the individual chunks. He carefully eases the silver apart and slowly the slim, dark body is exposed. Saliva wells up under his tongue and its tip tingles with an exquisite sensation that is near to pain.
He touches it; he senses a slight stickiness on his moist fingertips. He grips firmly and the bar breaks. Again, then again. And at last he inserts the first square into his mouth and his eyes closed as it dissolves, spreads round his mouth and oozes down his throat.
He takes another chunk, he takes two. He can’t resist biting into them. He pushes another one in, chewing, chomping. He picks up another – wait, wait, no, to hell with it – he’s chewing faster now, his mouth is full, he’s drooling. But he can’t stop. He’s gulping, he’s groaning, he’s gasping.
Oh God, it’s all gone. He slumps back, exhausted, full, empty, sick with himself. Appetite sated, appetite for appetite lost. He could cry with frustration. A flood of despair and disgust rushes over him. He lights a cigarette.
He thinks. He remembers there’s a packet of Coco Pops in the cupboard. He’ll be able to eat them in a while.
He’s had to steel himself against the temptation to touch it, to hold it, afraid it might melt with the heat of his hand. But now the moment has come. His heart beats faster and appetite throbs urgently in the pit of his stomach.
He longs to tear off the flimsy wrapping, drop the shreds to the floor and fall upon the chocolate with greedy, voracious teeth. But no – wait. It will be better to wait. To delay the moment of satisfaction. He tenderly places the blue-clad object of his desire in the fridge.
He pours a drink and tries to think of other things, but his mind is constantly drawn back to the waiting chocolate. Cold and hard now, but how quickly it will soften for him.
Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. He always comes back to Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. The others offer novelty, variety, the excitement of discovery, but Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is his one true love
The room is dark. The single lamp throws his shadow falls across the waiting, expectant bar. It seems so tiny, so helpless, so yielding.
He fetches the peppermints. Peppermints will enhance the taste, heighten his pleasure. The hot, white disc burns against the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth. He picks up the chocolate.
He gently eases the sleeve of paper the length of the bar and gazes at the shiny underwrapping. The foil is crisp and tight, stretched over the ridges of the individual chunks. He carefully eases the silver apart and slowly the slim, dark body is exposed. Saliva wells up under his tongue and its tip tingles with an exquisite sensation that is near to pain.
He touches it; he senses a slight stickiness on his moist fingertips. He grips firmly and the bar breaks. Again, then again. And at last he inserts the first square into his mouth and his eyes closed as it dissolves, spreads round his mouth and oozes down his throat.
He takes another chunk, he takes two. He can’t resist biting into them. He pushes another one in, chewing, chomping. He picks up another – wait, wait, no, to hell with it – he’s chewing faster now, his mouth is full, he’s drooling. But he can’t stop. He’s gulping, he’s groaning, he’s gasping.
Oh God, it’s all gone. He slumps back, exhausted, full, empty, sick with himself. Appetite sated, appetite for appetite lost. He could cry with frustration. A flood of despair and disgust rushes over him. He lights a cigarette.
He thinks. He remembers there’s a packet of Coco Pops in the cupboard. He’ll be able to eat them in a while.
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