Tangerine Sex

It made me think of pussy.

I’ve been thinking about sex most of the day today. Maybe it’s that spring is here; maybe it was the texture of the inside of the peel: soft, moist, leaving a slight stickiness on my fingertips, with all the little veins whitish over the little orange boats in intricate patterns; knobby-textured, feels funny to my tongue, similar to labia.

I wonder if the tangerine feels my tongue the same way I experience it when a lover runs his tongue over me.

Smooth skin on the outside, textured and moist on the inside. The smell on the outside of the peel is different to the inside: the inside being sweeter and softer, the outside bitter.

The tangerine is like sex, like a muse. I have ambivalent feelings. I want it, eat it, lick it, devour it savagely, yet there is a bitter sting to the juice in the peel.

There is something bloody about the actual little boat pieces, the little fibers of the fruit meat, the pulp; it is a miniature explosion of taste and sensation on my tongue, sort of how an orgasm feels in my body; an explosion of taste and sensation, followed by giggles.

The empty peel lies on the paper towel ready to wipe up the come.