Think of a woman, she says, handing me a piece of fruit that I recognized from local bodegas. It’s what I imagine a woman tastes like.
It feels like an extremely ripe tomato. Smooth, but mishandled. Bruised without the evidence. I immediately smell it and nothing arrives inside my nose. No preview.
Dig into it, she advises.
So, with a napkin beneath my chin– which she hands me– I grind my slightly crooked teeth (bottom and top) into this fruit called persimmons color of butternut squash, the neon version. There is an immediate rush of sweetness and I think of the last woman I tasted.
This doesn’t taste like a woman. I laugh. I want it to. I mean, I love the flavor of woman already, but I just don’t want you to be mislead.
[why must I be so literal at times?]
There is a high level of glucose in persimmons and it’s evidence remains on my tongue. So sweet that it’s almost painful. That reminds me of a woman. The good kind of discomfort kind of pain.
I hand it to her and she digs into it with her smooth, white teeth like morning clouds in the spring: free from any evidence of earth’s stains. I watch her bite, suck, swallow. I think of the last time I was turned on watching someone eat something…….
She tells me to put my finger inside of it. Dig out a piece, she says.
With it resting in my palm, beating out its juices, I dug my finger into it and felt what it feels like when I’m deep inside someone.
Warm. Sticky. Pliable flesh.
I wanted to use my tongue as a shovel to rip apart this fruit. This was the safest sex one could have with nutrients attached! Vitamin C. Calcium. Iron.
We passed this fruit between each other until it no longer existed. On the way home, I purchased one of my own. It sits in my fridge, teasing me toward it. I am waiting for it to ripen. One more day.