Celery contains androsterone, a hormone naturally produced in males that stimulates sexual arousal in females. Whether or not this hormone found in celery actually affects the body is still unclear. But hey, the vegetable has it so it’s a plus.
Fully-erect celery
It had been a tough spring for me. TomiSue, my bodacious long-time live-in girlfriend, had delivered the ultimatum after a Jabba the Hut figurine had fallen on her head during a night of wild ear lobe nibbling; either get rid of all my Star Wars collectibles, which lined the walls of my bedroom, den and screened-in porch, or she was gone.
TomiSue and Jabba the Hut: The choice was easy.
I had always loved TomiSue’s hair, which reminded me of Carrie Fisher’s bagel-based pageboy, but the choice for me was clear; any woman who wanted me to give up a healthy outlet for my imagination, one that had carried me through a lot of lonely nights and weekends, was asking too much.
Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia: “Sesame bagel toasted with cream cheese–got it.”
Our separation was amicable, and the division of jointly-held property uneventful; she got the souvenirs from our fun-filled day trips to Lake George, New York and Niagra Falls, and I kept the Star Wars collectible plastic drink cups we purchased on the road. Thank God for my palimony pre-nup!
Actual un-retouched photo of Lake George souvenirs
But now I’m at loose ends. Years of dusting my Star Wars collection had left me with atrophied interpersonal skills, and the mattress-rattling sex life that I shared with TomiSue had taken me out of circulation. Then I stumbled on AskMen.com one night while doing an innocent web search involving the terms “VEGETABLE” + “CHEERLEADER” + “SEX.”
Niagra Falls: Now available in a wide selection of designer colors.
It was AskMen.com that unlocked for me the secret to success with women–celery! Who knew? Just a few stalks will have a round-shouldered, introverted schlump like me oozing androsterone out of every pore! In addition to the fumes that seem to linger after my nightly large pepperoni from Gino’s Pizza (518-742-GINO).
For the first day of my new regime I have chosen a vertically-striped shirt to emphasize my muscular upper-body, with the top two buttons undone so as not to block the flow of “andro,” as street-smart would-be gigolos refer to the potent aphrodisiac.
I hit the door of my favorite lunch place–”Soup ‘n Salad”–and hesitate for a moment as I contemplate the air of mystery that hangs over the place. Why, I ask myself, if you’re going to abbreviate “and” as “n” don’t you use two apostrophes–’n’–instead of one? You got rid of two letters, an “a” and a “d”–one before and one after the “n.” Perhaps, as my fourth-grade nun used to say when I’d stump her with a question about the Holy Trinity or the Communion of Saints, these things will be answered in heaven.
“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Single Salad Lover! Over here”
I make my move to the salad bar, where a veritable bevy of slim, girlish beauties awaits me. I pick a svelte brunette as my first target, and make my move past a pot-bellied desk jockey who’d obviously prefer to be at Wendy’s. Wouldn’t do you any good, I say to myself; they cancelled the Taco Salad several years ago.
“How do the pickled beets look today?” I say with a leer.
“Disgusting, as always,” she replies. She’s taken the bait.
“Perhaps you should try some celery,” I say, picking a jagged cross-cut section of apium graveolens out of the aluminum bin in which it rests. I dangle it out of the corner of my mouth and she looks at me with what I think is barely-suppressed lust.
“You’re supposed to use the tongs,” Mr. Roly-Poly to my right says, ruining the mood.
“Buzz off,” I mutter under my breath. He’s taken aback at my brusqueness, but if I judge him right, he’s not man enough to report me to the Soup ‘n Salad Sneeze Shield Police.
My quarry has escaped down to the far end of the bar, where the extensive selection of regular and low-cal dressings awaits to adorn the vegetable delights that patrons will pile high in two sizes of plastic containers, either large or small. These, I remind myself with patriotic pride, are the plentiful fruits of the US of A–the greatest agricultural power the world has ever known!
My love interest is about to glop a dollop of the fat-free Thousand Island on her salad, when I make my move. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask as I put my hand on her wrist, my chest heaving with passion.
She looks up into my eyes, and I can tell I’ve broken through the thin door of reserve that civilized men and women must erect every day to contain the inner fires of the basement furnaces of their lust.
“You’re right,” she says, her eyes downcast as if she’s looking for something.
“I thought so.”
“I forgot the crispy rice noodles I always sprinkle on top.”
“Not that, the . . .”
“They add texture and make a tasty complement to any salad, and they’re a delicious snack by themselves.”
I gulp, not knowing what to say, or where this is going.
“Thanks,” she says finally. “Thanks a lot.”
And then she’s gone, racing off to join the rest of her secretarial pool–or maybe they’re just “word processing pools” these days.
“Excuse me,” a voice says, interrupting my reverie as I watch her go. It’s the little fat man.
“What do you want?” I snap at him.
“Some of the pickled beets,” he says, stretching his big hairy arms in front of me, a shot across my shattered bow. “And some celery.”
Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Vegetables Say the Darndest Things.”
I always thought women were attracted to a good salary, but maybe I had the spelling wrong.