Pounded by Produce

by G.M. Fairy

wishing I had produce like onions, tomatoes, cucumbers,

I nearly poop my pants, rubbing

“Have you seen my hairbrush?” Laurent yells

I never enjoyed my romantic relationships with women—however

Men and women piqued these primal interests,

These vegetables aren’t going to come to life and make themselves useful.”

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

How dickish of them to resign to a life of celibacy with looks like that. It’s just selfish, honestly.

chair on stage beside him.

stage lights.

I’d fuck around at seminary school

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” Robert says, the congregation responding with an “amen.”

It’s a beautiful sweater. Perfectly knitted with a yellow duck in the middle.

It’s like something in me knows what she needs—direction, stability, someone to take control. Why the fuck do I know that? Why the fuck do I want that person to be me?

“You are ridiculous.” “Yes, but only because you love it.” He pats my cheek. “My mission from God is to bring you joy.”

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?

It’s been years since I’ve had a woman's mouth on me, and I’ll take it, even as a cucumber. I’m not a priest anymore—not even a man. She can use me however she sees fit.

There’s no room for shame. I’m a tomato, after all.

vegetables. I somehow made them burst and had to clean cucumber and tomato gunk from my crotch. Okay, maybe I actually liked cleaning that up and even tasted a little bit of it, as weird as that sounds, but I will need to head to the pharmacy at some point because I most definitely contracted a yeast infection.

“But you’re both priests. Aren’t you not supposed to have sex with women.” Laurent replies. “Ah, but we weren’t priests when we were fucking you. I was a cucumber, and Robert was a tomato. Maybe this is from God. Maybe he wanted this to happen.”

“I don’t know if this is a test, blessing, or curse,

butter. I’m not a priest right now. I’m not even human—just nerve endings, just pleasure.

Alone with two of the sexiest vegetables in the world.

Please, for the love of God, bite me. Jesus Christ, does being a cucumber turn me into a masochist.

Robert said so, and whatever Robert says, I’ll sow into every fiber of my beliefs.

expect. I’m about to bust like a can of biscuits,

It wasn’t sex. This was a sacred act from God.

this man sitting in the audience?

songs. I figured one day I could have a special during church called ‘Silly Songs with Laurent.’”

Their love story seems poetic and tragic—like Achilles and Patroclus but adding me to the mix makes it seem like some corny smut novel.

“Pounding you as produce doesn’t even compare to how I can fuck you. I’m in control of your pleasure this time.”

This isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for them to turn into produce and radiate a magnetic sexual energy.

Fuck. Daddy God would not like where my mind is right now.

I definitely shouldn't have gotten tangled up with two priests who turn into sexual vegetables whenever they’re in my presence, but this is the way my life has panned out. There’s no going back—all

“I’m your God now,” he whispers. “No, that’s not true. This pussy is my God.”

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

They turn into vegetables whenever the three of you are together, and at least one of you admits your desires to yourselves, while the other denies their true feelings.”