Food Fight

Condiment-based erotica: a sex scene rewritten entirely in food & kitchen vocabulary.

I had to share this writing prompt that I found so much fun! Here’s my draft, please tag me in yours!

The Prompt:
It’s a 3-step writing exercise that uses constraint to create meaning:

Step 1: Make a list

Food nouns (butter, whisk, garlic, etc.)

Kitchen verbs (chop, stir, simmer, etc.)

Just brainstorm vocabulary—the raw materials

Step 2: Write a sex scene

Two people who know each other well (not strangers)

Write it normally, using regular language

This is your “original” version

Step 3: Rewrite using ONLY food/kitchen words

Take the scene from Step 2

Replace every noun AND every verb with words from your Step 1 list

The structure, rhythm, and emotional beats stay the same

But now it’s entirely in food/kitchen language

Must be under 500 words

The effect:
By forcing intimate human touch into kitchen vocabulary, you create this strange double meaning—it sounds like cooking but reads like sex. The constraint reveals something about the relationship: when intimacy becomes routine/mechanical/transactional, it can feel as impersonal as following a recipe.

My story:
Food Fight 2

Part 1: The Food & Kitchen List

Nouns: butter, whisk, colander, dough, spatula, saucepan, garlic, thyme, olive oil, stock, filling, simmer, broth, honey, vinegar, fork, ceramic bowl, kitchen counter, oven, steam, glaze, marinate, zest, pepper, salt, flour, yeast, timer, apron, dish towel, measuring cup, knife, heat, surface, edge, center

Verbs: knead, whisk, fold, sauté, baste, dice, julienne, blanch, caramelize, reduce, tenderize, season, proof, sear, drizzle, toss, marinate, strain, garnish, plate, broil, glaze, melt, rise, blend, warm, crisp, slice, consume, devour, taste, grip, press, split

Part 2: A Short Sexual Encounter

He didn’t text before he came. He just showed up, the way he always used to, like the door was still his. She opened it without asking why. They didn’t hug. They didn’t smile. They just walked back to her room.

He sat on the edge of her bed like he’d never stopped sitting there. Like his body remembered where to be before either of them did. She stood in front of him for a moment, arms loosely crossed, shirt hanging off one shoulder. Not posing. Just waiting.

He reached for her waist first. His fingers wrapped around the hem of her shirt, slow for a second, testing whether she would stop him. She didn’t. He lifted it over her head, and she helped by raising her arms halfway—not urgently, just enough. The shirt fell somewhere behind them.

He leaned forward and kissed her stomach first, then her chest, then her mouth, like retracing something without thinking. His hands moved to the back of her thighs, pulling her onto his lap. Her legs tightened around his hips like they always had, automatic, thoughtless.

She tugged his hoodie off. Then his shirt. Their bodies pressed together—warm skin on warm skin, sweat just starting though they hadn’t done anything yet. His mouth moved along her jaw, her neck, down the slope of her shoulder. She didn’t sigh. But she tilted her head enough to make room.

He laid her back and slid his hand between her legs like he’d done it the day before, not months before. Two fingers first, slow circles—not teasing, not searching, just doing what worked. She grabbed his shoulder—not hard, not soft, just holding onto something to ground herself. Her breath got heavier. Her hips moved. Her eyes stayed closed.

When he pulled his pants down and pushed into her, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. Her back arched because it always did. His hand came down to her hip because it always did. Their rhythm found itself before they spoke a single word.

He pressed his forehead against her collarbone as he moved. She wrapped her legs tighter. Their breathing filled the room—heavy, close, uneven. His pace broke once, then steadied, then broke again like he was trying not to feel something about it.

She rolled him onto his back without speaking. She climbed on top of him, knees braced on either side of his hips, hands flat on his chest. She moved slowly at first, then harder, then slower again, chasing something she didn’t want to name. His hands slid up her sides, then around her back, pulling her down so her chest was against his. He kissed her neck again, firmer now, almost desperate, but not enough to be a plea.

He came fast—too fast. His hand went to her waist to hold her still while he shuddered through it, jaw clenched, eyes closed like he couldn’t stand to see her watching him like that.

He stayed inside her as he caught his breath.
She didn’t move.
Not yet.

Then he slid his hand back between them and made her come. He didn’t watch her face. He never did. She came quietly, body tightening around him, her breath sharp, her fingers digging into the back of his shoulder.

When it was done, they separated without talking. He lay on his back. She rolled to her side.

Their legs still touched.
Barely.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

And they both pretended it was true.

Part 3: The Food Fight Version

He didn’t knock. He just stepped inside like the kitchen counter was still his place to lean on. She didn’t say hello. The room held their history like the smell of olive oil that sinks into wood and never really leaves.

He sat at the edge of the bed the way someone stands at the stove, waiting for water to simmer, knowing it always takes longer when you watch it. She stepped between his knees, and his hands gripped her waist with the same ease as reaching for the ceramic bowl he always used without asking.

She lifted her shirt, and he helped, fingers moving like someone folding dough that already knows how it wants to shape. The shirt landed somewhere on the floor near a dish towel she hadn’t washed in too long.

His mouth moved along her collarbone, slow, like marinating something overnight. Not rushed. Not gentle. Just letting the heat build because that’s what they always did — let it come to temperature on its own.

She climbed onto him, knees braced, hips settling into place like yeast finally beginning to rise. His hands slid under her thighs, pressing her closer, aligning her the way someone aligns a knife against the center of a loaf before cutting.

He split her open with the same practiced certainty as someone who doesn’t check the recipe anymore. Her breath caught, sharp, like steam escaping when you lift the lid too soon. She didn’t look at him. Looking was too real. They worked by feel, not sight.

The bed moved in a slow sauté, their bodies adjusting, shifting, seasoning each other with memory instead of meaning. Her hands were on his shoulders, not clutching, just resting there like thyme left in a pot because removing it would change the flavor.

He flipped her beneath him, and the motion was almost frustratingly smooth — like straining pasta directly into the sink with one hand while holding the saucepan steady with the other. Familiar. Efficient. Wrong, but easy.

He moved faster, breath uneven, hips working like something about to reduce too far. And when he finished, it came quick — a boil-over, a timer going off you forgot you set. He stayed inside her, exhale hot against her neck, like heat still inside an oven after you’ve turned it off.

Then his hand slid between her legs and he tenderized her into finishing — the same rhythm he had always used, calibrated, internal, thoughtless. She came quietly, body tightening, holding herself together with the fragile control of a glaze just beginning to set.

When it was done, they didn’t part. They just cooled, like something pulled from heat and left on the surface to see what shape it would take.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said — voice smooth, reduced, controlled.

Not honest.

Just plated.