Imagine a world without espresso-based drinks and desserts. How would white dudes even describe women’s skin? They would stumble about openmouthed and speechless, unable to cobble together even the simplest of metaphors.

Instead of skin like café au lait: “Her skin was like hot black coffee with the smallest amount of half-and-half mixed in: incredibly hot, and constantly swirling with rapidly-moving clouds.”

Instead of skin like mocha: “Her skin was like the largest organ in her body, like the soft outer covering found on all vertebrates that protects them from pathogens and water loss, as well as providing insulation, temperature regulation, sensation, and the production of Vitamin D folates.” 

Instead of creamy/milky skin: “Her skin was like yogurt: thick, gummy, and full of probiotics.”

Instead of skin like chocolate: “Her skin was like Nestlé Qwik, or maybe Ovaltine if you grew up in the kind of house that drank Ovaltine instead of Qwik.”

Instead of skin like hazelnut: “Her skin was like Nutella. Her skin was like maple syrup and honey and a little bit of jam. God, I just want to eat a woman’s skin. That’s all I want. I just want to gnaw on it and spread it on a baguette and eat it until she doesn’t have any skin left.”

Instead of skin like cinnamon: “Her skin was like cardamom: thick and seeded and carefully trapped inside of hard pods.”

Instead of skin like espresso: “Her skin was dark but beautiful, O women of Jerusalem—dark as the tents of Kedar, dark as the curtains of Solomon’s tents.”