Pounded by Produce

by G.M. Fairy

I really don’t want to be a nun. Don’t get me wrong, the outfits are sick, and I’m totally down with the eternal female friendship bit. I just need a little dick every now and then.

He says it like he held the word in his mouth and savored it before giving it back to me.

That’s not a tomato at all. That’s Robert. I could recognize him in any form.

her touch sends a shiver through my cucumber frame.

Praise the Lord for whatever the heck is going on right now, because God do I fucking love being a cucumber.

I’m a tomato. A fucking tomato.

He looks like a regular fucking cucumber, but I know he’s Laurent more than I know that I’m a tomato. No form could hide him from me. I’d recognize him even in the grave.

I just exploded, but it almost feels like release—like a strange version of tomato come.

“I felt something. There was something different about that cucumber and tomato, something I can’t explain.”

Can produce sin?

but it’s just me. Alone with two of the sexiest vegetables in the world.

“Robert, you were a tomato I rubbed myself off with. Be so for real right now.”

This pussy is my God.”

We’re no longer priests. Just men—men who sometimes turn into vegetables, but not now.

I love you. I will love you no matter what form you take. Man, priest, tomato, even in death, my heart will beat for you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I have to remind myself not to take all the blame constantly. Sometimes, it seems like self-loathing is a symptom of womanhood.

Maybe I like religion just for the familiarity, to feel like I belong.