So You Want to Bang a Cake, Inside the Messy World of Hardcore Food Fetishists: Thrillist

It’s Friday. 10pm. You’re lying on the couch in your underwear watching Entrapment. It’s that scene where Catherine Zeta-Jones pulls a Nicki Minaj under some lasers, and the imperative that you get laid tonight is becoming as clear as Zeta-Jones’ gratuitous ass cleavage. You are single, as is obvious from both your predicament and the number of crushed Tecate cans functioning as combination iPhone holders/ashtrays littering your coffee table. Staying in is not an option.

Well, alright. You’ll have to shower. Shave. Buy condoms. Clothe yourself in an unembarrassing garment and transport yourself to a public space of the sort that potential partners of the sex/age/social subgenre you prefer to bang frequent. You could hop on Tinder or Grindr, but then half the time you’ll open the door to a swamp creature whom you will screw anyway because, hey, the swamp creature is already in your apartment, and then you’ll have to breathe through your shirt the whole time to mask the scent of (WTF?) the banana-flavored lube that this dubious person brought here in their pocket…