It’s a tale as old as time: A gentleman has just wooed his lady love with a selection of the finest prime rib and a bottle of Domaine Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage from his personal wine cellar. They enjoy a chocolate soufflé in front of a roaring fire while listening to some light jazz. He reads her “To His Coy Mistress” by candlelight and sweeps her off her feet, the better to carry her into his bedroom. There, as he undresses her, she whispers those five little words that drive every man wild: “Sorry, I can’t, I’m full.”
The thing about this scenario is that it’s never, ever happened — and yet, it’s the topic of comedian Cazzie David’s essay “Too Full to F – – -,” which went viral on The Cut yesterday and has occupied approximately 97 percent of my available brain space since then. Please allow me to present the thesis of this essay, in David’s own words: “From what I’ve discovered, only one gender has to save room in her body if a penis is to go into it — meaning that sometimes, if you’ve eaten a hearty meal, there isn’t enough room for a penis.”
Real quick: What? Enough room where? Our protagonist realizes that you eat with your mouth, right? The food lingers in your mouth for a second and then it’s off to bigger and better things elsewhere in your system. What kind of Dagwood-like sandwich antics are Cazzie David performing that by the time she’s finished eating a meal, she does not have eight inches (god willing) to spare anywhere in her body? David continues, “You know the saying ‘You can always make room for dessert’? Well, you can’t always make room for a dick. Especially if you’ve eaten dessert.”
No, ma’am, I do not know that saying, but I trust that someone has said it somewhere. Anyway, I sort of know what she’s talking about. I’m a practical woman, one with both a vagina and an all-consuming passion for the chimichanga platter at my local Tex-Mex carryout. I’ve been unpleasantly full in my day, too. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of at an all-you-can-eat buffet. After I make tender love to the unlimited breadsticks basket at the Olive Garden, I don’t necessarily want to follow up with a round of stomach-sloshing deep-dick action. This part makes sense to me, even if I might have confined my philosophizing on the matter to a Twitter thread rather than a personal essay collection… still, it takes all kinds.
And hell, I’ll admit that when it comes to anal sex, what I eat beforehand is an even more immediate consideration. The idea that the enterprising anal bottom ought to enjoy a protein- and fiber-heavy diet isn’t new. Even when you keep things strictly vaginal, you probably don’t want to suck down too many chili dogs outside the Tastee Freez immediately before the act, a sexual consideration otherwise known as the John Cougar Mellencamp Maneuver.
What I take issue with is the idea that the problem here is a lack of physical space, as opposed to the mood-killer of stomach cramps or farts. Not to be indelicate to the horror of any ladies in the room, but my pussy is in no way connected to my gastrointestinal tract. What happens in the one does not contribute one bit to the physical layout of the other. I’m not too proud to admit that I spent one Christian hour after reading this essay fully agog, imagining an alternate universe in which the bratwurst I had at dinner becomes the erotic obstruction preventing penetration at half past eight. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen, because I don’t have the internal layout of a cartoon character.
I wish David had more guidance for readers like me, something like “don’t forget to chase that garlic bread with a Tums for ultimate satisfaction” or “a Metamucil a day keeps the pre-sex stomach pain away.” Unfortunately, the rest of the essay is no more illuminating. It’s more of the same, plus a quick jaunt into blue balls theory and a charming (?) anecdote about a boyfriend who once encouraged David to eat ice cream rather than save room for, uh, him. After reading it, I was left with more questions than I started with. For example, do some people’s GI tracts bleed into their birth canal like some kind of unholy fire hydrant’s splitter connection? And also, what kind of friends would allow a woman to publish these thoughts where anyone can see?
I don’t have any answers. All I know is that I’m going to go enjoy some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and then, if I’m in a particularly Russian Roulette-ish mood, some cock.