Breakfast -- The Big Lie

At some point in every Shadow Relationship, there comes a point where the guy will say, "I would love to make you breakfast."

In hindsight, I realize now, this is the point where every sane woman should hold up her hand like a traffic cop and say, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop right there, buddy. There'll be none of THAT kind of talk!"

For some reason, men love to talk about making you breakfast. The implication is, of course, that they have spent the last eight hours fucking you silly and in every orifice of your body, and now they want to continue proving their manliness, their all-around what-a-guyness -- with a plate of eggs.

They will brag about their egg-making skills. They will interrogate you about what type of knivery and cookware you possess, to make sure it's all up to their world-class egg-making prowess. They will go into reveries and musings about what kind of spices and cheeses they will put into these ambrosial eggs.

I tell you, ladies, at the first mention of eggs, flee. Run as if all the hounds of hell are at your heels! Because breakfast is where it all turns into a lie.

When they start talking about eggs, or French toast, or pancakes, that's when they've gone *completely* over the edge from getting a little piece of tail on the side and into the world of full-blown fantasy, and I mean, "now I'm just makin' shit up to keep you on the line" stuff. To them, it's the most UNlikely thing that's ever going to happen, as much a flight of imagination as them having a threesome with you and your super-hot best friend. They *know* it ain't ever happening, and so it's safe for them to fantasize about it.

What these men don't understand is that "breakfast" is a code word to us. In this code, "breakfast" says to us, "I am looking forward to doing the everyday, the quotidian, with you. I am planning to be the person who wakes up next to you and kisses your warm, sleepy neck, and brings you coffee in bed, and shares the Sunday Times with you." We get the gooshies when we think of these things, and we hug ourselves secretly and whisper, "Oh, he's really *mine* if he's talking like that!"

Maybe I overstate myself. Maybe "breakfast" isn't a lie so much as it's a *huge* miscommunication. I dunno.
But I do know one thing.

Unless the man is standing in my kitchen in his boxer shorts wielding a spatula, calling into the bedroom where I am awakening from a sex coma with bite marks on my shoulders and thighs like overstretched rubberbands, I won't ever let him utter the word "breakfast" to me again.