Sex sells. We get it. What we don't get—what we still can't ram through our stupid, thick, rational skulls!—is why the sex they're selling is sex with, you know, animals. That you're supposed to eat. After you have sex with them.
It's not just us. It can't be. Growing up, we didn't know anyone with fantasies like this. Certainly not fantasies they cared to broadcast.
But in the world of the barbekooks, this predeliction rates as high as the dream of dallying with supermodels. It's a common trope, this desire to get it on with one's supper and make it to fifth base. That's the one that features knives and forks.
Addendum: That apostrophe really bothers us too.