Why Fuck?

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At first, the title of this book did not include the word “FUCK”. 

The original version of this book did not include the word "fuck", anywhere, at all. 

At first, I described the book very politely: 

A professional chef’s exploration of aphrodisiac ingredients—blending history, science, and lore into playful recipes for couples of all kinds. 

Respectable. Intelligent. Safe. 

Then a friend of mine—who writes for Gourmet Magazine—stopped me mid-pitch and asked, “What’s your working title, Mark?” 

I hesitated. 

“Well… the short version probably isn’t appropriate.” 

She smiled. “Try me.” 

So I laughed and said it. 

“Feed Me. Fuck Me.” 

Without missing a beat, she said, “That’s the title.” 

I wasn’t convinced. I didn’t know if it would fly. But the more I studied what sells, what resonates, and how language evolves, the clearer it became: this book needed a title that matched its energy. Direct. Honest. Unapologetic. 

During COVID, one of the best-selling books in the world had profanity in the title. That’s when I realized something important: the word “fuck” has evolved. It no longer lives only in the shadows of vulgarity. It has become expressive shorthand for intensity, emphasis, rebellion, pleasure, frustration, awe. 

Webster defines it clinically: 

[fuhk]  
verb (used with object)
Slang: vulgar 

1. to copulate; to have sex with someone. 

2. to ruin or damage something. 

noun (used without object)
Slang: vulgar 

1. an act of sex. 

2. a partner in sexual intercourse. 

3. an annoying or contemptible person 

exclamation
Slang: vulgar 

1. used to express annoyance, contempt, or impatience. 

Accurate? Technically. 

Complete? Not even close. 

Step outside the dictionary and into the real world and you’ll hear its full range: 

Fuck it. 

Fuck her. 

Fuck him. 

Fuck off. 

Fuck yes. 

Fuck no. 

The fuck? 

Are you fucking kidding me? 

That’s fucking amazing. 

You’re fucking beautiful. 

Tone changes everything. Volume changes everything. Context changes everything. The written definition barely scratches the surface of how powerfully this word moves through our culture. 

Let’s be honest. 

You’ve used it. 

You’ve used it in ways that might once have earned you a bar of soap in your mouth. You’ve used it when you stubbed your toe. When you witnessed something outrageous. When you were shocked. When you were thrilled. When you were impressed. 

And yes, when you were turned on. 

The exclamation point isn’t enough anymore. One exclamation point doesn’t do it. Five don’t either. So language evolved. A bigger word stepped in. 

That word is “fuck”. 

Now let’s bring this back to food. 

If you prepare these recipes for your partner—or better yet, with your partner—you may very well engage in the art of copulation. But later, when you call your best friend, you won’t say, “it was a pleasant culinary experience followed by satisfactory intimacy.” 

You’ll say: 

“It was fucking great.” 

“She was fucking incredible.” 

“I’ve never fucked like that before I made whipped cream with…” 

You get it. 

Feed Me, Fuck Me is a journey—for me as the chef and for you as the reader. A shared exploration of ingredients that have been studied, tested, whispered about, worshiped, feared, and consumed across cultures and centuries for one primal reason: 

Food and sex belong in the same conversation. 

Adults know this. History proves it. Science supports it. Lore celebrates it. 

So yes—feed each other. Cook together. Experiment. (S)Explore. 

And if, in the process, you find yourselves laughing, sweating, tasting, touching, and later describing the entire experience as “fucking amazing”… then the title did exactly what it was supposed to do. 

We hope you feed and fuck with euphoria, with pleasure, often—and forever.