You’ve done it. Everyone’s gone for the day—for classes, whatever that means. No one around, no one to bother you. You’ve got the apartment all to yourself. Your eyes lock on the cupboard door, a once unremarkable object turned titillating at the thought of what lies behind it. You pull on the handle, swing it open, and there, sitting on the shelf, it is: a 13-ounce jar of Nutella. Unopened, and almost glowing with allure.
You reach out for the jar, body full of awe. A tingle rushes down your arm as you make contact with the cold glass. It’s so… hard. You shudder, as the thrill of what you’re about to do courses through you.
You turn from the cupboard, mind so absorbed with what’s in your hand that you forget to close the door behind you. It’s weighty, oh so weighty in your clammy palm. Your mouth waters, and you lick your lips without blinking. No need to rush. With slow, deliberate movements, you clasp the pure white lid: the perfect size, like you were meant to be together. At the store, when you were just checking it out, it seemed a little too big, but now, you’re surprised at how ready you are for what’s about to come.
You apply the gentlest pressure to the lid, pushing slowly, teasing the jar to release. You hear and feel a pop at the same time, and the tiniest rush of endorphins washes over you. You feel the urge to yank off the lid and shove your fist through the seal to the sweet nectar beneath, but you resist—only the best for those who wait. You give the lid a few turns and carefully lift it off so as not to disturb the gold foil beneath it. You take a moment to admire the virgin surface, the undisturbed mirror that you wouldn’t dare to mar with your own visage, hideous in comparison to the beauty in your hand. With a fingernail, you scrape along the edges, the slight grating vibrating deep within your core. The edges of the foil now lifted, you begin to remove it, going slowly so as to keep it intact. For now, you want to keep it clean—the mess will come later.
As the foil peels off bone-achingly slowly, you experience a slight shudder as the last bit of it lifts off. There’s nothing now between you and the Nutella, and you take a moment to breathe. No need to rush, no need to rush, you repeat to yourself as a mantra as you slowly, agonizingly slowly, lower your grubby human finger into the food of the gods.
A big scoop, a smear on your tongue, and you are in ecstasy. No one has ever made you feel this way—not when you lost your virginity, not after a long relationship built on love and trust. This is something else. A soft moan escapes your lips, and you lose control. The world narrows down to the jar in front of you, and you are only conscious of movement, back and forth, back and forth, as your hand repeatedly, seemingly endlessly transports the orgasmic flavor to your mouth, both becoming coated in sticky brown goo. As you reach the bottom, you swipe up as much as you can at once, one last hurrah, and shove the whole affair deep in your throat, your tongue swirling around your finger in mindless bliss.
As you scrape the sides of the jar for any remaining traces, you start to come down from your high, and you become conscious of the delightfully filthy smile splitting your face in two. You lick what you can out of the jar, off your hand, off your own face, before giving the jar one last glance before casting it away in the recycling bin. You can’t bear to look again, not wanting to be reminded of what you once had, gone too soon.
You wash your face, hands, and body in the kitchen sink, flipping on the light switch as you head back to your bedroom. You collapse on your bed, sated and wistful, reflecting on your day, on life, on youth and pleasure. And then, as the feeling of what you have just done really hits you, you literally have no other choice but run to the bathroom and vomit.