(We're back with the sex talk, darlings. Oh, yes. Sex.)
When I was stripping, when I was still Candace, a particularly boorish customer said to me, “You know, Candace, you seem like a pretty wild girl.”
Um. Ok, thanks. I guess.
“Do you like scat?” He asked.
Oh. Ella Fitzgerald? Yeah, I said, she’s great.
I knew he wasn’t talking about the improvisational style of jazz singing popularized by this American legend, but I wasn’t going to go there. Few things in the panoramic world of sexual activities make me want to go “Ewww!” like a nine year-old, but anything directly involving poop is one of them.
I bring this man up as evidence to the fact that we can’t always help that which gives uneasy birth to our sexual fantasies. This boor, some other night, not the great scat night, asked me if I’d ever been made love to with a honeydew melon.
I wish, I wish with a white hot extra flamey passion that I had not gotten this delicious idea from this corpulent, piggly stripclub patron. I wish with every crepuscular dendrite in my dusky imaginative cerebrum that I had been gifted with the image of a cool slice of wet green melon parting my labia, lingering over my clit, and pressing my pussy with its resilient weight by a dark, handsome, and preferably Catholic lover.
(All of my important lovers and/or boyfriends were Catholic. I don’t know why. Donny, Ernie, C., Will, Eff, Marta: Catholics all. Even the soul-sucking WMB was raised Catholic. Maybe it’s the lingering whiff of myrrh and guilt.)
Because now I have it, this fruity fantasy. And now I’m stuck with it. And I’m afraid that until such time comes that I have said pussy caressed in said fashion with said fruit, I won’t be able to let go of it.
In fact, this honeydewlicious fantasy of mine has laid the fertile ground for all kinds of other sex acts direct from the produce isle.
I’ve even, once or twice, taken a stab at writing some porn wherein a greengrocer girl seduces a man late night in the supermarket, pulling him into the dark recesses of the mart, somewhere near receiving, where she has him make sweet sweet fruity love to her.
She bends over a box in a short skirt.
He sees she’s wearing little under her white apron.
Her smile beckons.
She pulls him up against her, her back at a wall of boxes.
She presses a box cutter into one hand, a melon into the other.
No, she says, lick me first with this. Their eyes meet. In a flash, he understands.
He cuts a piece of melon, raggedly, hurriedly, inexpertly, And as she stands in front of him, legs spread, panties askew, he teases her sweet wetness with its sweet wetness.
Until the juice runs down his chin.
And all that.
I have, in the last six weeks been figged. I got the idea from this woman. And then I read more about it. And then I got obsessed with the idea until one Sunday I dragged Donny to the upscale mart in his nabe, bought a hand of ginger, forced him to read the figgy pudding directions online, peel the ginger, and stick it in me where the sun has never shone. Ginger is, after all, a root.
It felt amazing. I urge each and every one of you to try it on your onesy. Or, even better, with a ginger-loving loved one.
I have, in the past six months, sucked a lover’s cock with strawberries in my mouth. Not as good as grapes, the strawberries. Grapes, when you have them in your mouth and suck cock, especially when the grapes are green and hard and cold, have a lovely fluidity of movement. They rub and jostle in a sleek way. Strawberries, because of the seeds, do not.
I have, in the past six years, deepthroated a mango. Just because I could.
Today I had a peach, a peach of Valhalla. It was white and delicately scented, and so juicy that it spurted its Valhalla juice out my mouth and down my chin. When I eat peaches like this, I think of them sunwarm and split open and rubbed with abandon against my naked breasts.
Cherries I want stuffed in me like ben-wa balls, rolling against each other, knocking gently against my g-spot.
Persimmons when ripe remind me of licking pussy.
Lychee nuts when peeled look like the imagined testicles of seraphim.
Bananas are too obvious.
We can’t help how we come to want what we want. We can only help how we come.
Eat some fruit. Think of me. And enjoy.
(And thanks to JoeSchmuck for the inspiration for this post and the title. Which I stole.)











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