Pounded by Produce

by G.M. Fairy

I surrender to my search, grabbing a stale piece of bread, wishing I had produce like onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, something to make an omelet. I don’t even have a toaster, so I bite into the starchy morsel as I return to my job-searching post.

Foreshadowing?...

I nearly poop my pants, rubbing my eyes to see if the malnutrition is consuming my eyesight.

dying at the use of poop... Very pg

It’s a horrible thought, but the devil gets in my brain when I’m hungry.

I’m thankful my partner priest has as much, if not more, of a naughty mouth as I do. Life would be rather drab in this quiet country parish without Laurent to banter with.

I can’t deny that I’ve had thoughts, carnal heated thoughts that creep through me when I least expect it. God tests his strongest soldiers, and I’m not spared from temptation.

We had our own rooms and never found ourselves in that sinful situation ever again. The road to godliness isn’t always straight and narrow; at least, that’s what I tell my patrons.

“I better get to the kitchen. These vegetables aren’t going to come to life and make themselves useful.”

“Maybe if we pray hard enough, God will make our produce come to life and cook itself.” He smiles.

Father. Fuck me. I knew there would be priests, but hot priests? What kind of rom-com is this?

He’s also smooth. Almost like a…I don’t know, a cucumber?

It’s not the chopped cucumber I had in mind, but it’s for the best. I should probably keep my distance from cucumbers for a little while.

There’s no way he could know what I woke up from, but goddamn, does it feel like he can read me better than a Bible.

I thank God daily for my strong hand and my healthy imagination.

She’s not holding a tiny version of me. She’s holding a cucumber. A fucking cucumber. I’m a cucumber. It’s almost too ridiculous to be a dream, but it has to be because what the fuck?

That’s not a tomato at all. That’s Robert. I could recognize him in any form. It doesn’t look like Robert. It looks like a goddamn tomato, but as much as I can tell I’m a cucumber, I can tell that tomato is Robert.

Oh my God. I was so concerned about living life as a sentient cucumber that I forgot the worst part of all—I’m food.

I should be freaking out, but her touch sends a shiver through my cucumber frame.

I walk over to my bed, placing the tomato and cucumber on my bedside table. I’m not sure why these two vegetables make the blood in my veins thicken, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut them up for tonight's salad.

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.

Who makes the rules in these sex-vegetable morphing realities?