A Magical Day In Which Deep Throating Saves My Life
It all started at Berkeley Bowl.
Damn it if they don’t have the most amazing prosciutto. Normally, it looks like this.
But Berkeley Bowl also sells prosciutto ends.
I fell victim to the not so tender prosciutto end because I had worked out for two hours that day. TWO HOURS. I was fucking hungry. I wanted to eat an entire boar, not some thinly sliced delicacy draped over a sliver of melon.
I purchased my morsel and unwrapped it in the car, careful not to sully my fingerless gloves. I was beside myself with desire, my nostrils filling with the prosciutto’s hazelnut and sea salt aroma.
At first, I ate like a lady, tiny bite after tiny bite. But the bites got bigger and bigger until I was happily chewing a dense, golf ball sized piece of prosciutto in the parking lot.
And then I felt it. That golf ball was in my esophagus. I opened my mouth to cough. Silence. Shit!
Now I’ve been around long enough to know that if you can’t cough, no air is getting into your lungs. Chocking to death is right around the corner. So I started digging around in my mouth. Could I pull the prosciutto up? Could there be a strand of fat still connected to the wad that I could grab onto? Not a chance.
I was out of options. I had to get out of my car and pantomime for CPR or I had to shove my fist down my throat and get that fucking thing out. Public humiliation is always a last resort for me, so I went with the latter option.
I did not panic. No, sir. I knew how to deep throat. I’d had bigger things than that piece of prosciutto in my esophagus. I had an entire routine for this, a cheat sheet even, I (silently) cried out.
I was indignant. I was a fucking pro. How dare that prosciutto challenge me. I would teach it a lesson.
I rammed my fingers down my throat, grabbed the hunk of cured meat, and yanked it up. It spilled into my palm and mucus tumbled into my fingerless gloves. Snot hung limply from my nose and covered my upper lip, water (not tears, damn it) filled up my eyes and ran down my face. But come now, that’s not so different from learning how to deep throat.
I tossed the piece of prosciutto out the window (sorry Berkeley Bowl) and took a deep, triumphant breath. I removed my fingerless gloves, wiped up my face and hands, and started the car. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I cursed the wasted prosciutto and grabbed what was left. I nibbled it all the way home.
The moral of the story is – if you don’t know how, learn to deep throat. $64 + tax on goodvibes.com will get you more than half the way there.
Don’t have $64 + tax? This is practically free.
Although, seriously. I don’t recommend putting food in your esophagus.
PS - Special hugs to you know who. Thanks for teaching me how to save my own damn life.
