Time Out New York’s Sex Issue last fall included a group of essays from people who had acted out their fantasies. One woman finally experienced double penetration, a man cheated on his wife and one girl sploshed with her boyfriend. I had never heard the term ‘splosh’ before reading this article. Sploshing is the act of using messy substances that are non-bodily fluids like whipped creams, custards, spaghetti, etc. to reach sexual arousal. I read the TONY article about this girl and her b’s playtime with vanilla pudding and tomato sauce in the bathtub, laughed a little, flipped the page, and forgot about the story. That is until I had my own experience with food last weekend that left me wondering, did I splosh?! Last weekend my dude and I spontaneously decided to book a room at a new hotel in town. I thought, this is the perfect time to make my man’s dreams come true! A few months back he told me that he wanted me to sit on a cake. No, not hide in a big cake and jump out of it, but smoosh a perfectly baked cake with buttery sugary icing with my ass, so that he could have the pleasure of eating the frosting and chunks of moist-yellow that attached themselves to my body.

When he told me this, I burst out laughing. Well, first I made a very confused face and then I cracked up. I kept laughing on my way home and shared the joke with my roommate who also broke out into a belly aching laugh. But when the tears stopped rolling, I started to consider it. I’ll try anything as long as it’s not too painful. So this past Easter Sunday, before heading over to the hotel, I called my favorite bakery and asked for a small cake with pink frosting. The woman attending to me got all up in my business, asking me a number of questions that under normal circumstances would be fine, but due to my purpose for the cake seemed a little imposing. How many people is the cake for? Erm, two, I mean three, yeah three. What is the cake for Lady, you do not want to know what I’m going to do with that cake. Do you want anything written on the came. Yeah, Bullseye.

I picked up the pretty pink cake, snuck into our hotel room while my guy was out, slipped on a pair of white lace bloomers and pumps, smeared on some hot pink lipstick and set the cake up on the coffee table and waited for him to arrive. He walked into the room to find me standing over a cute, round column of yellow cake covered in pink, sugary frosting. It was his turn to laugh. We took turns swiping chunks of frosting, smearing it on each other and licking it off. We felt more goofy than sexy and we became increasingly hyperactive with each mouthful of frosting, wriggling around the room and laughing ‘til our abs hurt. Then came the moment we had been waiting for—I sat on the cake. I shrieked! Cold, buttery frosting smudged onto my lower butt cheeks and inner thighs. I wiggled my butt in the cake, but when I stood up to check out the damage I’d done, I noticed that the cake wouldn’t crack. It was pressed into some sort of mound, but no matter how hard I pressed and jigged and rotated, the bitch wouldn’t break apart.

It was obvious we were no match for the cake, so with our stomachs in stitches, we gave up on trying to break her down. My boyfriend lick the frosting off of me smacking his lips from the sweet frosting. About 30 seconds into it, his sugar coma kicked in and he asked, “can we take a shower now?” His fantasy had turned out to be a lot more fun and a lot less arousing than he’d expected. As we stood up to go to the shower, with frosting in my belly button and in his chest hair we caught a glimpse of the damage we had done. There was frosting everywhere, pressed into the carpet, in the creases of the coffee table and stuck to the hardwood floors. It took us longer to fix that mess up than it took to make it. All cleaned up, leaning against the shower wall, he smiled at me and said, “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And like the writer of the Time Out article, the real arousal could finally begin once the sploshing had ended.