Vicarious Pleasure
I’m watching a Korean cooking competition.
I notice my body responding before my mind really weighs in. Salivation. Focus. That familiar pull that usually comes when I’m about to eat something good.
Except I’m not eating.
The judges are blind tasting. Literally blindfolded. No visual cues. No plating to seduce them.
One chef knows this and designs for it. Before the judges take a bite, he pours hot water over heated stones and seaweed. Steam rises. There’s a hiss that settles the room. The smell of the sea blooms into the air before anything touches their mouths.
I feel it in my body immediately. The sound. The heat. The aroma.
My attention sharpens right along with theirs.
The judges take big spoonfuls. Serious bites. They chew slowly. You can see them tracking texture, temperature, balance. These aren’t casual reactions. They’re fully present to the moment.
I can tell when something works for them. There’s a pause. A stillness. A subtle shift where their whole body seems to lean in. Sometimes their faces light up. Sometimes it’s quieter than that. But when they’re impressed, it’s unmistakable.
That moment feeds me.
Not metaphorically. Physically.
I notice my own energy rising as I watch them. Especially when two dishes are close. Or radically different. The excitement builds as they start picking apart the details. Salt level. Mouthfeel. Aftertaste. Contrast. Memory.
They have to stay fully in the bite they’re taking, while also reaching back to recall the previous one. Comparing not just flavor, but impact. The way one dish lingered. The way another surprised them.
You can see their bodies change as they do this. More animated. More alive. There’s a kind of pleasure in the discernment itself. In having to pay that much attention.
It’s delicious and sexy and engaging.
And again, I’m not the one eating.
At some point, I pull my attention back just enough to notice what’s happening in me. I’m enjoying their experience almost as much as I would enjoy eating the food myself.
That’s new enough to catch my attention.
My pleasure bandwidth has been steadily widening.
I’m registering the same kind of nourishment I’d normally associate with a peak experience, without the experience being assigned to me. I’m not tasting the dish. I’m not competing. I’m not being judged.
What I’m responding to is the charge. The presence. The devotion to the moment.
I recognize this.
My first lived experiences of this kind of pleasure came years ago in kink spaces. Watching someone choose a scene that would take them to a personal edge. Physical. Emotional. Mental. Sometimes spiritual. Watching the courage and thrill it takes to step into intensity on purpose.
That was sexy as fuck. Not because of the acts themselves, but because of the willingness. The hunger. The way someone shows up when they’re testing themselves with full consent and commitment.
It’s the same quality I’m watching here.
These chefs are doing something similar. So are the judges. Putting themselves forward. Letting their senses be worked. Letting themselves be moved, or not, without collapsing either way.
There’s something deeply satisfying about witnessing that level of engagement.
What’s different now is how clearly my body can receive it.
I’m less dependent on being the one having the experience, and more responsive to aliveness itself. Less focused on possession. More attuned to quality. Like developing a better palate. Not indulgent. Discerning.
I’m not wanting less.
I’m noticing more.
It makes me curious how often we assume pleasure has to be direct, personal, and resolved in order to count. And how much nourishment we miss because of that assumption.
This isn’t a conclusion. Just a field note. Something I’m noticing as it unfolds.
I’ll be sharing a companion practice for my paid subscribers who want to explore this capacity directly, from the inside, as lived experience rather than concept.
For now, I’m just paying attention to how easily the body can be fed when it’s allowed to stay open.
In mouthwatering sovereignty,
-Sharon Marie Scott
