The Scotch Bonnet

Let’s talk about sex and drugs. Two drugs in particular: amphetamines and opiates. Not the dodgy kind you buy from a guy who “knows someone” – no, the natural kind, the drugs that are made inside our own bodies. When we first fall in love with someone – and we’re in that passionate maelstrom – we can’t eat, we’re distracted, we blush, get butterflies in our stomach, our libido goes through the roof. This is all down to a particularly sexy sounding chemical called Phenethylamine – which, when we’re getting it on with a new lover, our body kicks out by the bucket load. It’s an amphetamine and, of course, comes at a price – we ignore our friends, we can be irritable, anxious, sometimes even paranoid. After a while (about a year or two in a relationship) for Escort bodrum our own good, our body stops producing it and instead moves us on to another drug, Endorphin – your very own opiate and the drug of enduring love. Of course this transfer doesn’t go smoothly and may not affect both partners at the same time. We miss that adrenaline rush from the early stages. Without it we think the spark’s gone or the flame is dying when really it’s just our bodies settling down for the long haul. So when my forlorn girlfriend of 18 months announced in bed this morning, after just three days without sex, “We need to spice things up a little,” I knew what was going on. If spice is what she needs spice is what she shall have. I took Escort Kuşadası a trip to the local market, to the Caribbean food stall run by a fellow called Baron Samedi; he plays the part, it must be good for business. I asked for his hottest chilli, to which he knowingly leered “You need to put some fire back in your life, mon?” which was followed by a deep and annoyingly infectious guffaw. “You wan’ dis,” he said handing me a small, heart-shaped fruit. “The Scotch Bonnet. Wherever it takes you, tell me all about it when you get back.” By the time she got home from work, I’d already started to prepare the evening meal – extra spicy jerk chicken (organic, of course). Her house keys clattered as she threw them across bodrum escort the table and she released a heavy sigh of relief as her laden messenger bag slipped from her shoulder to the floor. As my freshly-sharpened kitchen blade sliced through the pepper’s blood-orange skin, she slid up to me, gave me a peck on the cheek and asked: “Watcha cookin’?” I told her what I was cooking, to which she smiled, gave me a flash of those big blue eyes and in her most sarcastic tone replied: “Ah, you do know when I said spice things up, I was being metaphoric, right?” “The capcaisin in the chilli produces…” but before I could go on she abruptly stopped me. “Shut up Mr Science, I don’t want to know. Just let me have a tiny bit.” I placed a small piece on her tongue, after a second or two she felt the power of this little chilli kick in. “Oh wow, that is hot,” she exclaimed, her wide open eyes glistening a little. My fingers, reddened by the chopped pepper started to tingle; the juices reacting to create a building burning sensation on my fingertips.