The Problem With Immortality Ch. 12

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 12

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 12: Foodgasms

Food.

Anson was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. One of the main forms of recreation for the human race was eating. It had been for centuries. One of the main reasons people went to foreign countries was to sample the cuisine.

But, even in today's modern stratoliners, it was time and labor intensive to get on a plane for New Orleans and then one for Tokyo and then one for Rome and then another for Paris and then another for Berlin--if, indeed, one had a taste for German food.

But a new service offered different foods of the world, all in one location, prepared by master chefs. Human chefs, if the advertising could be believed.

The Blue Pagoda only had four locations around the world, but it was growing fast. Anson and Jessica met the owner, Servillier Manfrau, in Paris.

Servillier Manfrau had been a food connoisseur and chef at an early age. He had started washing dishes and serving food in fine restaurants in New York (which betrays his age--it was before robots took over most of those jobs), and worked his way up to Executive Chef at some of the finest restaurants including Le Club, Situation 24, and the Green Awning. Manfrau loved producing fine food that people enjoyed. He loved seeing the expression on people's faces when they bit into his food.

But what Manfrau loved even more than that was money.

So he struck out and started his own restaurant. Word of mouth was positive, and soon he had a steady stream of customers. But even as the owner of one of the most exclusive high end restaurants in New York, he wasn't raking in more than two or three million credits a year, after expenses.

And Servillier Manfrau wanted more.

So he offered, for 10,000 credits a meal, the ultimate dining experience--the finest choice of food from around the world, prepared by the most expert human chefs.

"10,000 credits a meal? That's quite a lot of money," said Anson.

Servillier Manfrau wouldn't have tolerated such skepticism from anyone. But he knew who Anson represented. Having Francisco Odour at one of his restaurants would be worth five million credits of free publicity. Perhaps even ten.

"Are you a connoisseur of fine food, Mr. Ford?"

Anson admitted he wasn't.

"Have you ever had a foodgasm, Mr. Ford?"

"A foodgasm?" said Anson.

Manfrau sighed. He was obviously conversing with a dilettante. "The feeling of pure joy, rushing through your body, as you sample an exquisite taste on your tongue."

"No... I can't say that I've ever experienced a foodgasm," said Anson.

"But we've experienced the other kind," said Jessica, grabbing Anson's arm and winking.

They were mocking him. Manfrau had to check the impulse to end the interview abruptly. There could be a lot of money to be made here.

"Why don't you try one of our daily packages? It's only $15,000 credits for a meal," said Manfrau.

"I thought your meals were 10,000 credits?"

"This is our gold apron package. The finest of the finest cuisine. You should only be sampling the very best for Mr. Odour, should you not?"

Anson agreed that he should. "Is there any way to try a free sample, perhaps?"

"Oh I am sorry, Mr. Ford, but you must try the complete dining experience to understand the full flavor of what we are offering," Manfrau smiled.

Anson sighed. "Very well. Sign me up."

"Not the both of you?"

"Miss Dhomes and I will share a single portion."

"Oh, I am sorry, but that is not permitted," said Manfrau.

Anson looked at Jessica. It would be useful to get a second opinion about the food. But worth an additional 15,000 credits? Well, he had an expense account.

"All right, for two," said Anson.

Manfrau's smile grew even broader as his datapad recognized the receipt of payment from Anson's account.

*********

Anson and Jessica were seated around a dimly lit table in the Paris location of the Blue Pagoda. There were six other people seated around them, all of whom had apparently paid 15,000 credits for the meal they were about to eat.

They were all fine connoisseurs of food, as Anson expected.

What he didn't expect were the stomach tubes.

Each one had a slender tube, snaking through their clothing, leading to a black canister on their belts.

"Excuse me, what is that?" Jessica asked, pointing to the tube.

The man she talked to raised an eyebrow. "You've never seen a fine diner tube?"

"No," said Jessica. And then, seeing the man's haughty expression, she added, "I'm just a simple farm girl from Kansas. My rich boyfriend here is taking me to the big city for the first time," she said, grabbing Anson's hand. Anson smiled encouragingly.

"All sophisticated diners have one," said the man. "They are tubes which intercept food going to the stomach, and transports it to canisters like this one here," he said, tapping the black oval around his waist, "which can be discarded later."

"Yes, but why?"

"So we don't gain weight," said the man. "Eating food is pleasurable, but being fat is not."

Jessica looked at the man. And the five other men and women sitting around the table. All were obese, with rolling bellies and double chins. "What percentage of the food is removed by this device?" she asked.

"It varies based on the suction setting," said the man. "It's anywhere from 50% to 75%. Mine is set to the maximum, because I'm a correspondent for Munching Magazine, and I have to keep my trim figure."

"I see," said Jessica, looking at the man's enormous belly. He looked like a pregnant whale. She and Anson exchanged mocking glances.

A waiter came out with the first course. Each one of them received four different little dishes of salad.

The waiter started to read from a prepared speech. One salad was of a certain kind of lettuce and carrots only grown in Belgium. Another was from a special organic farm in Iceland. A third was from rare varieties grown in Paraguay, and so on.

It came with seven different options for salad dressing. It took the waiter several minutes to explain those.

Anson tried one salad dressing, but it was incredibly bitter. Then he tried a second, and had the same experience. He settled for trying his different salads without dressing. "Do the different salads taste any different to you?"

"Nope," said Jessica, flicking away a radish with her fork as she dug for some cucumber.

But the other guests were eating with gusto. They remarked on the different flavors of the baby carrots from Iceland, the differing textures of the cucumbers from Paraguay, and the unique leafiness of the lettuce from the hot houses of Somalia.

"Did you notice the sideburns on that waiter?" said Jessica, biting into her cucumber.

"No," said Anson.

"His face, and his sideburns, reminded me of a chef I once dated. His name was Andre! Oh, how masterful he was with his hands!"

"In cooking, too?"

"Heh heh heh," said Jessica, rubbing against him playfully. "I like the way you think. Yes, he was good in both ways. Great in bed, and afterwards, he would always insist on cooking for me. He would say, in that deep voice of his, "Jessica, I insist that you only consume the finest meats."

"He meant it in every way, I'm sure."

Jessica smiled at the memory. "Yeah, he did. "

"So how did it work out?"

Jessica made a face. "It was good for a few months. But it had to end when he insisted on cooking French food all the time."

"Why didn't you just ask him for something else?" said Anson, chewing on a baby carrot.

"Oh, he would cook anything I wanted for me," said Jessica brightly. "But for himself, he would only cook French food. I got tired of seeing and smelling French food opposite me every day. It gets wearying after awhile, you know?"

"And so you dropped him because you didn't like the food he ate."

"Yeah. I was really upset for a few days. At least, until I met the most wonderful mime named Marcel. Not the biggest talker, but his lips-"

She was interrupted by the arrival of their next course.

Four kinds of breaded shrimp, on a silver platter.

Breaded shrimp, on a silver platter....

********

[236 years earlier]

"I love you so much, darling," said Jennifer, the light of the candles reflecting in her eyes. She reached over to give him a passionate kiss, which he enjoyed. When she drew back, she said, "Happy 100th birthday, dear. I have a special surprise for you."

"You mean, beyond this?" said Anson. He indicated the silver platter of breaded shrimp. Jennifer knew it was his favorite food, and had cooked it for him specially. She was 98 years old, and he was 100, but cosmetically, she looked 28, and he 32 years of age.

"I have much more for you than this," she said flirtatiously, using a finger to tap playfully at his chin with every word she spoke, as she sensually sat on his lap. She abruptly got up and took her own seat.

"What kind of surprise do you have for me?"

"You'll have to wait until after dinner to see," Jennifer teased.

"It sounds like the kind of surprise I'll like," Anson grinned wolfishly.

"You may get a taste of that too... if you behave yourself," said Jennifer, giving him the "you may fuck me later or you may not" teasing look.

Anson loved it when Jennifer flirted with him like that. The excitement, the teasing, the thrill of the hunt, really turned him on, even after 72 years of marriage. He couldn't wait to have more of it.

But first, there was his special surprise.

After a wonderful dinner with his wonderful wife full of great food and the greatest company imaginable, she led him to the music room where she sat down in front of her white baby grand piano.

Anson plumped down on the soft white couch, which Jennifer had demanded match her new piano. When she had gotten her white piano, they had had to throw out the old beige couch. Anything to please Jennifer.

"And what will the Master Musician of Reykjavik be playing for her humble subject tonight?" Anson teased. Eight years earlier, Jennifer had won the International Music Masters competition at Reykjavik, and earned the right to be called a "Master Musician." Anson had been so proud of her, but that night, when they were celebrating in bed after her victory, he asked if perhaps calling her a "Master Musician" was sexist and maybe she should be called a "Mistress Musician". That earned him a pillow in the face, a lot of chest ticklings, and the most awesome round of oral sex he had received in many a year.

"You'll see," she said, again giving him her patented "You may or may not have sex with me tonight" look with her raised eyebrows, a look she knew drove him wild. She adjusted her holographic sheet music, and started to play.

Anson sat upright immediately. It was Signorelli Carlotti's March of the Rooks. Anson's favorite song.

He had hinted to Jennifer for years that she should learn it, but she had always begged off, saying it was too difficult, that the key movements were too rapid, even for her. "This arrangement was made for a robot, not a person."

"But Signorelli Carlotti played it," Anson had whined.

"You're not married to Signorelli Carlotti," she had said, kissing him. "Be glad for it. I have better legs."

But now she was playing it, and playing it perfectly. Anson realized that she must have been practicing in secret, for weeks, possibly months, to be ready for his 100th birthday. She saw his eyes widened as he realized what it had taken her, the effort she had put into it, and she smiled.

Anson looked at his beautiful wife, playing the piano like a master, and felt like the most blessed man in the world. Her chestnut brown hair had little blonde highlights in it, making her look extra sexy. The whiteness of the piano and her clothes made her deep blue eyes "pop" brightly, looking up at him from time to time hypnotically.

Her smile made him her instant love slave, willing to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

Jennifer was wearing tight white slacks, the kind she knew he liked. He liked the way they defined her muscular thighs. From where he was sitting he could even see the tight seam, between her legs. It drove him wild with desire.

She wore a white shirt which was semi-sheer. He could see the outlines of her black bra underneath. Jennifer had refused to wear a black bra under that shirt in public, saying it made her look too slutty. But she did it tonight, all for him. He saw the outlines of her beautiful C cup breasts. He remembered when they had been B cups and she had made them bigger, just for him. At that moment he loved her so much.

And then Jennifer reached the most difficult part of the piece, where the notes played like wildfire, both on the high ends and low ends. And then her hands split, wide apart, and her fingers played rapidly, both in perfect synchronization.

Anson felt a wild excitement through his body as he realized that she was playing the piece perfectly. Absolutely perfectly. The beauty of the music, the beauty of his wife, and the perfection of the music, all overwhelmed him.

When she was done, after banging the last, three, low notes, she turned to him as if to say, "Well?"

Anson had no words. He was speechless. He leapt forward, pulled her up, grabbed her in his arms, and started kissing her hysterically.

"Hey, I promised you could have that too," said Jennifer. "But really, how was my playing?"

Anson saw she was teasing him again. She clearly saw the effect she had on him. "You know, I am the luckiest man on this entire planet."

"Really? And why is that?" said Jennifer, putting her arms on her hips.

"Because I have you," said Anson. And then he kissed her with such intensity, that she wrapped her arms around him, smothering him, and she moaned, "Anson... Anson... Anson..." like she was climaxing, and then he took her to bed and made love to her, and it was one of the most precious nights in both their lives.

********

"What do you think of the shrimp?" Jessica asked.

"What?" said Anson.

"You didn't try any of your shrimp," said Jessica. "There is North Sea shrimp, which they say is sweeter, South Atlantic shrimp, which they say is tangier, Malaysian Sea shrimp, which they say is tarter, and Sea of Japan shrimp, which they also say is... sweeter?"

"Didn't you also say the North Sea shrimp is sweeter?"

"Yeah, it must be sweeter, in a different way," said Jessica.

Anson tried the shrimp from one of the four bowls. He had already forgotten which was which. The first one tasted good! So did a shrimp from the second bowl. And the third, and the forth.

They all tasted the same.

Oh, how he missed Jennifer!

"Do they taste different to you?" he asked.

"No, but look at the others," Jessica whispered.

The other diners were chewing with gusto, talking excitedly with each other. "The North Sea variety is definitely fresher, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue!" said one. "I like the slightly higher acidity of the South Atlantic shrimp!" said another.

As the fatties talked, they could see bits of shrimp coming out of the tubes snaking through their clothes, heading into their canisters.

"Are we eating the same shrimp that they are?" Anson asked.

"Maybe we need a really, really discriminating palate," said Jessica.

"Well, then I really brought the wrong person with me, didn't I?"

That earned Anson a kick under the table and a cross glare, but made him chuckle slightly.

The same scene was repeated with the next course, the soups. They were given four different kinds of exotic chicken broth with different seasonings and spices. Anson had to admit they tasted slightly different, but not very much so. And he didn't like the taste. They put too much oregano into it.

The other diners enjoyed it though, making groaning sounds as they slurped their soup. Anson couldn't help but watch the yellow liquid coming out of their filter tubes going into their black canisters. It looked like they were urinating through their stomachs.

But it wasn't until the main course arrived that diners had their first foodgasm.

There were four different kinds of beef, in four different kinds of sauces. The waiter seemed to take nearly ten minutes explaining it all--what part of the cow each portion came from, what kind of cow each portion came from, what part of the world each cow had been raised in, what method of ranching was used to raise each cow, what food supply each cow had been eating-

"I'm waiting to hear what school each cow got their diploma from," Anson whispered to Jessica, earning a well deserved titter and a glare from the waiter.

People started sampling the dishes. The man to Anson's left had the first foodgasm of the night. He opened his mouth wide, in an exaggerated fashion, and slowly put a piece of dripping red meat on it. He closed his mouth and chewed forcefully and slowly, as if he were mimicking a dinosaur going "Munch! Munch! Munch!"

Then he started rubbing his belly and moaning. "Oooh... Oooooh," as his eyes rolled up into his head.

And then a woman sitting across from them also started to have her own foodgasm. "Ooohh... Oooohh!" she moaned.

"I'll have what she's having," said Jessica, popping a piece of steak into her mouth.

Anson chewed on the meat. It tasted undeniably good... but very similar to steaks he had had before, in his over 300 years of eating meat.

And then the dinner started to take even more erotic tones. As the other diners ate more and more, the food seemed to act like an aphrodisiac. The men started to shamelessly put their hands between their legs and start rubbing. Women started rubbing their own floppy, fat titties, and then started imitating the men, rubbing themselves down there as well.

Jessica looked quizzically at Anson as she ate. "Did we get the same food they did?" she whispered.

Anson nodded.

"Ooooh! Ooooh! Ooooooooh!" said the man sitting next to Anson, his body shaking, his hand rubbing vigorously between his legs, as he seemed to climax from his Foodgasm, mere inches away from Anson.

Anson took a taste of wine and made a face. There were six kinds of wine, and all of them equally bad. One was bitter, one was even more bitter, one tasted like cough medicine, and it went downhill after that.

And then dessert came, with all sorts of fancy French sounding names for cake and apple pie. Anson and Jessica endured the documentary-like explanation of the desserts, before enduring the even more painful next round of foodgasms.

"Oooooh!" the man next to Anson cried out, his lips caked with dark pudding.

"I think we're done here," said Anson.

********

When they got outside, Jessica said, "So what was it all about, Anson? Why did they react so differently? Was the food really so different, and they were just expert tasters? Or was it all in their minds?"

"Let's find out," said Anson.

"How?"

Anson held up a plastic bag. Inside was a nested series of smaller baggies. "I took samples."

"When did you think to do that? You're brilliant, Anson!"

Anson, anticipating this need, had already located a chemist who specialized in food science. They made an appointment and went to his lab and he handed over the samples. He expected to have the samples dissolved, or put in a machine, but was instead surprised to be directed to a room with what looked like a giant, pink tongue.

"What is that?" said Anson, looking at it.

"A tongue," said Professor Stephenson, smiling at him. "One of my greatest inventions. I have genetically engineered a giant tongue, with dual tasting and analytical properties."

"That's it... just a tongue? No body, no brain?"