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Can a male human write a 1st person pov, even in 3rd person narrative, dealing with such an intimate matter as female sexuality and masturbation?

Probably not, ethically or successfully (though I’ve always maintained that it’s unlikely any two people, whatever their sexes, genders, backgrounds, etc, will experience (or at least interpret) such things the same way anyway. Whatever, here in The Travelling Lady’s Cookbook: a Grand Tour in Twenty Recipes, we’re approaching as Joe Orton puts it, what our racier novelists term ‘the climax’, after a steaming bowl of Jambalaya, somewhere in Central or Eastern Europe —

XV
Jambalaya

 “Ain’t nothin’ spicier than Cajun cookin’ honey!”

xxxThere were precious few picnics in among the plentiful passion, Epifanea thought. Food was far from absent and even got involved messily in the action at times, but she wondered if the title was really justified by the plot.
xxxBut that Janey Gower had first encountered her latest playmates at a street stall run by an improbable Southern Belle in an even less likely Derbyshire village was inspiration enough for the evening’s food. As indeed their post-po’boy shenanigans would hopefully motivate her later.
xxxShe’d never been to New Orleans but Ms Tredwell knew how to make Cajun food as well as Ms Gower was learning to laisser les bon temps rouler. She also knew that the andouille sausages and tasso that went into a good jambalaya could be replaced with East European kielbasa and smoked ham, better than with any standard UK charcuterie. She gave thanks for a local market that could sell her small portions of each (enough ham to spare for a sandwich in a packed lunch for tomorrow’s long train ride), as well as a small chicken fillet and a couple of prawns.
xxxThis was a slightly slimmed-down jambalaya. The full deal could involve clams or even oysters, and be served at large gatherings with a separate creole sauce, which she did in three strengths — medium, hot and napalm — depending on the tolerance of each guest. Tonight she would make it pretty hot, pretty moist and pretty simple, though there would of necessity be enough to supply a quick breakfast, which she could enjoy cold without the accompaniment of his sarcastic gagging and expressions of disgust.
xxxWhen she got in from the shops, she sat by the window, looking out towards the mountains, and picked up Picnics. It’s all in the blend, the intrusive author had commented on the chemistry between the foursome that now started to remove each other’s clothing in a slow, sensuous ballet, though that was all the book told her, leaving her imagination free to fill in the details. This may have been a mistake, as the phrase conjured up for Eppy a farcical scene involving tutus and bulging tights.
xxxWas it the writing or her own cynicism — or perhaps, she had to consider, her own inhibitions — that prevented her suspending her disbelief and subduing her smiles?
xxxOr her obsession with food? Was that a substitute, a sublimation for suppressed desires? Yea or nay, the idea of the perfect blend certainly made her think how important that also was in Louisiana cuisine. The herb and spice blend: thyme, oregano, bayleaf, cayenne, black and white pepper; and the holy trinity, as Cajuns call the mix of green pepper, celery and onions that form the basis of almost every dish. She’d even been able to convince a greengrocer to sell her a single stick of celery, something she couldn’t do in her local supermarket. There’d be no need to make a vat of celery soup this time.
xxxBefore all the participants were naked and all their various bits and pieces had been described to her in the purplest prose, Eppy, though slightly stirred, was also distracted by these thoughts of culinary preparation. So a saucer of spices and a bowl of veg were soon sitting by the hob, the chicken and charcuterie were chopped and a clove of garlic crushed. Oh, and the prawns peeled and the easy-cook rice rinsed.

I shall arise and go now and walk down by the stream.
And a can of lager with me I will take and sit
and watch the sun go down, and dream.

xxxThe thought of spicy food and even spicier reading caused Epifanea to wax lyrical. It amused more than embarrassed her now to think that she was looking forward to reading crap writing, rather than missing the euphonies of a Woolf, Wolfe or even Wolff, not to mention anticipating the effect it would have on her. Maybe the phrase ‘to use pornography’ wasn’t so inaccurate; then again did she simply ‘use’ food to assuage hunger? Maybe the terminology was itself used to deprecate, and, she said to herself,  her masturbation laughed at deprecation.
xxxHer walk, thanks to all these anticipations which now slid towards impatience, was a short one. She was soon back at home with a pan of stock heating on one ring, while the copper-bottomed pan contained cubes of ham and slices of sausage sizzling in a little lard.
xxxOnce the latter were crisped up enough, she turned the heat to medium and added a crushed clove of garlic and the members of the trinity, to soften. Then, giving the base of the pan a good scrape, she turned the heat up once more and added the chicken, letting that cook for three more minutes, while stirring and scraping away.
xxxHalf a tin of chopped tomatoes in juice went in and the heat was reduced a little, letting the chicken cook through and occasionally stirring, scraping to infuse the flavours that caramelised on the metal. Then the stock was stirred in, topped up with some more of the tomatoes and brought to the boil. She tasted the sauce, gasped, took a swig of lager and added a couple of chopped spring onions. She gave the mix a good stir before and after adding the prawns and the rice, placed the tight-fitting lid over the pan and turned the gas down low. The recipe she used said to put the lot in a moderate oven for twenty minutes but she didn’t even bother to do that at home. A low heat and a couple of stirs did the trick every time, and easier to check when the rice hit that perfect al dente state.
xxxAfter twenty minutes and a little more Passion, Janey Gower was ready for more than just a massage and Epifanea Tredwell was beginning to envy her — but the jambalaya was ready to turn out onto a plate as a spicy appetiser. A smaller portion than usual perhaps. She could always have a little more before she finally turned in, but she didn’t want to feel bloated, not when she hit the sack tonight.
xxxThis, she said to herself is hot stuff! Thank heaven for crusty bread and cold lager.

xxxAt first still shy and somewhat embarrassed by the watching couple, she had turned her gaze away, directing it to the full breasts with their proud nipples, the slim waist and smooth pubis of the Swede. But this meant confronting the fact that she was enjoying — and oh, how she was enjoying it — the attention of another woman. Closing her eyes removed the hard-to-process visions but focused all her attention on the actions of her assailant’s hands, causing the waves of pleasure rippling through her whole body to intensify.
xxxAnd suddenly the thought of Samantha and Johann watching her became even more exciting than the novelty of those Sapphic embraces.

xxx‘Sapphic embraces’?! Bloody hell. Oh well…

xxxSo she opened her eyes once more, to return their gaze. Though his hand was round Sam’s shoulder, cupping one of her girlish breasts, his attention was entirely fixed on the activity on the chaise longue. As was Samantha’s, though her left hand was tantalizing his engorged member, fingers flickering up and down it like butterfly wings, causing it to twitch and, combined with the stimulation of the tableau vivant, make his breath laboured and uneven, punctuated as it was with low moans, to which her own increasing ululations added an ever-louder descant …

xxxUlulations?
xxxThe language mattered not, the images were everything, the effect tantalizing. Was it her own fingers or his fingers or even Ulrike’s fingers that now caressed now flicked now rubbed her soaking clitoris? Was it the idea of enacting such a scene, of him watching an expert masseuse, a beautiful woman, bring her closer and closer to the height of pleasure? She hardly knew and cared not a jot. She could read no more of the overwritten prose, could no longer hold the book in fact, but the narrative had done its job.
xxxFantasy, supplied or conjured up, was no longer needed. Images blurred and mingled together and became an abstract sequence of colours behind her closed eyes. Her whole body tingled and ached, her back arched and relaxed as her buttocks and thighs twitched uncontrollably. After what seemed both like ages and no time at all, the feelings rushed together, centring on her loins, then spread out again into her whole being like a torrent, as her vagina pulsed and she gasped and squealed. Pressing tightly on her clitoris, she prolonged the feeling for as long as she could, letting it gradually subside. She sank three fingers into herself and let them slide sensuously in and out a few times, before withdrawing them, wiping them on the sheet and letting herself relax in the warm afterglow for a long while.
xxxAs she headed for the shower, thinking she’d have to put that bedsheet through the washer and tumble dryer before she left, her phone warbled its messenger alert.
xxxWithout much thought, she turned it off, and threw it back onto the bed.

 

 

 

By the way, if you want to read from the start, it’ll be easier if I give you a link to

chapter one

Perverts please note, this is the only chapter with anything explicitly sexual in it, so don’t waste your valuable time; food fanatics, there are loads of recipes, and folks interested in human romantic relationships, there’s that kind of stuff ever-present under the surface.

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