This article should not be construed as medical advice, legal advice, or sensible advice.
Some of you out there enjoy a nice pickle tickle. It’s only natural, according to several studies I would cite if I could remember them.
Having sex with food is one thing. After all, we’ve all fucked the occasional carrot or potato, but sometimes we all need something a little sweeter. Sometimes we need a fruit. But oftentimes, we’re scared to take a walk down the produce aisle.
We’ve all been mortified by that YouTube video of Tiffany Haddish teaching America oral sex tips with a grapefruit. That can be very intimidating. Grapefruits are very large fruit. But sometimes you can get just as much pleasure from much smaller fruits.
Peaches are inherently the same as butts, explaining why so many Renaissance painters focused on them, as did the French impressionist Paul Cézanne, who, if I recall correctly from my Art History class, concentrated heavily on round things and once proclaimed, “With an apple I will astonish Paris.”
As someone who has been banned from three farmers markets and one Edible Arrangements, I strongly believe sex education in schools must include a mandatory unit on consensual farm-to-bedroom intimacy and basic mellon-baller safety.
But back to peaches, nature’s petite derrière. If you get physically involved with a peach, it’s functionally anal. Just watch out for the pit. If it helps, pretend you’re fucking an elderly man with an enlarged prostate. Trust me, it feels just the same.
Or move onto something larger, like a watermelon, or a pumpkin, if you’re ready for autumn.
Yep. I know it looks intimidating, but just shove the entire thing up there. Or cut a hole out and have fun. Sculpt it as you wish. Just imagine these melons are human testicles, because watermelons feel exactly like human testicles. This is basic anatomy.
If you don’t believe me, speak to a doctor. You may not see the similarity because you don’t have testicles, which, if you’re a man, is probably worth confirming medically.
Either way, I’m sorry you’ve had to resort to fruit. There’s someone out there for you. Keep trying. I’m single, by the way. And alone. Very alone.
Incidentally, do not attempt pineapple without first consulting both a physician and a priest. And whatever you do, avoid coconuts.
I’m just extending the article so I look smarter because I’ve written more. Please help. I want someone to hold while I peel back their skin and fuck them—wait, no, those are fruit, not people. I often confuse the two. I just want to bite into something juicy and have its juices spill all over—wait no, still fruit. My bad.
I just want to feel something, anything at this point, and if that means I have to stand in a grocery store whispering sweet nothings to a cantaloupe, then so be it.
If it means I have to make prolonged eye contact with a cashier to buy a honeydew, I accept that burden.
If it means I have to ask a Whole Foods employee which fruit “looks loneliest” and then nod gravely when she says “pomegranate,” I will keep that secret.
If it means I need an inappropriate relationship with a papaya to remember what it’s like to be alive, then bring it on.
Because fucking fruit is not just about feeling less alone, it’s about having the courage, intimacy, and primal lust to stand before society, raise a plum to the sky, and shout, “You made me this way.” I say: Fuck. A. Fruit.
Sort of like Chuck. E. Cheese.
Spiritually, anyway.
—Anonymous