Is That Viagra in Your Medicine Cabinet or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"You are what you eat."

"What five things are always in your refrigerator?"

"Please pack up your knives and go."

Am I a terrible person for not giving a damn what people eat? Frankly, unless it's going directly into my mouth, food bores me almost as much as cats do -- and that includes pictures of it on Facebook and Instagram, which are right down there with YouTube videos starring cuddly felines.

Oh, please. I don't even care what the person sitting across from me in a restaurant is having. I never pay attention when my breakfast, lunch or dinner mate is ordering unless he or she is taking forever to decide or making a big fuss over ingredients and having everything done just right. One of my least favorite small-talk questions has always been "What did you have/are you having for lunch/dinner?" I mean, who the hell cares?!

I've always been much more fascinated by what people are hiding in their medicine cabinets. I think what's behind that closed door is far more revealing than what's always in the fridge. Your staple groceries might provide clues to what medical maladies lie in your future, but there's no better indicator of one's medical present than what's on the other side of that mirrored door.

Though I haven't snooped in someone else's medicine cabinet in years, probably since my early days in New York City, I never did it in search of inside information about anyone's medical state: Unless we're having unsafe sex, what's going on under your skin is between you and your doctor. I used to do it purely for entertainment purposes. I got a kick out of seeing what people were storing in there. Of course, those were the days before you were likely to find the really interesting stuff, especially little round pills whose names end in "-zepam" suffixes. To this day, I still don't even know what Viagra looks like, which I partly blame on the end of my bathroom-snooping ways.

Mostly, though, I blame my fear of having a heart attack right in the middle of a party in my pants. No erection would be worth my life. I can't say I've ever been even almost tempted to pursue a manufactured hard-on, though at least two people have offered to take me there. The first was a guy I went out with in Manila nearly three years ago. When he picked me up, he was horny-high on Cialis, which I believed to be B-list Viagra (see, that's how much of an expert I was/am on the subject), and he had more where that came from, in case I was interested. I politely declined, though I did accept the stack of Cialis pens he offered me. I still have them, though I've yet to use even one.

My second invitation to try the "hard" stuff arrived today via Whatsapp. Ironically, it came from someone who recently told me that he's going to Manila as part of his pre-40th-birthday celebration in June. He and I have been doing the Whatsapp mating dance for months, and this afternoon he invited me over to his place with the lure being not just his company but an arsenal of sexual enhancers, including Viagra. Last time I heard from him, he was suggesting we meet for coffee. What's with him and things I have no intention of trying?

An afternoon nap on my own couch was a bigger lure than what he was offering, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not now dying to know what's inside his medicine cabinet. It's the only place in his Devil's Peak apartment that I am picturing in my head, even though I'm sure the place is stunning, if the photos he once showed me of his place in Greyton are any indication. Who cares what he's having for dinner? I want to see what else he's been popping.

Maybe my lack of concern over what's going on in other people's refrigerators/kitchens has to do with the fact that my own eating habits are so lame. I don't cook, and my mother and future boyfriends aside, I don't care if nobody ever cooks for me again. Sometimes I wish we could all just take a nourishment pill and be done with it.

I basically eat the same foods every day, and the only thing that I ever keep in my fridge for more than a few hours is water and milk for my granola (a breakfast, lunch and dinner eating habit that I picked up with my first boyfriend, Derek, ditched for about two decades, and rediscovered last year in Tel Aviv). So if anyone were to judge me by what's always inside my refrigerator, they'd probably go away thinking "What an empty life" he must lead.

There are far better stories inside my medicine cabinet, none of which, by the way, would provide any significant clues to my current medical state or come in particularly useful in the case of an afternoon tryst.