Ever notice how picking tomatoes is like trying to give sexual
pleasure to a woman?
You start out with this beautiful vine, nearly bursting forth at the
seams with fruit, swollen here and there with juice that runs down
your fingers and your tongue if you are lucky. Eagerly you dive in,
picking the fruit off the vines. A little from the left, a little from
the right. Straight down the center. You finish off the center vine
and realize the plant is still quivering, heavy with yet more fruit.
How the hell is this possible? How long is this going to fucking take
me?
But then you realize, damn, this is some juicy fruit. Look at that
color — just the right shade of red, glistening with moisture,
moisture that has worked its way down your arms and all over your
clothes. Listen to the little snapping noise that comes with every
fruit that is taken off the vine — almost a little sigh of relief,
that little popping noise as the plant lightens its load and your
basket grows heavier with each prize. Inhale the scent — that perfect
combination of thick body and light fruity accent.
And what flesh of any other fruit could feel as similar against the
tongue as the light feel of the clitoris?
Parting the leaves on the vine to the left, to the right, looking for
the fruit in the center. And there it is — you have found it —
sitting there nestled on green leaves, a cluster of shining red
tomatoes, peeking in and out of view. With trembling fingers you use
one hand to hold back the other vines and leaves, and the other hand
to pick the virgin fruit. Eagerly — and you would like to think
skillfully, but almost assuredly this plant has had far better pickers
than you — you take the fruit, one after the other and place it into
your basket, until the final tomato remains.
Just as you are reaching for the last delicate blossom, you suddenly
lose your grip. Oops! The vines all shift out of your hands and you
are left in wonder — where has it gone? You were so close, so close!
Shifting the other vines out of the way, you dive in with both hands
and desperately start to search for that one tomato, but it alludes
you. You seek in the general area you were just in, but alas, you see
nothing but the greenery, taunting you with its very presence.
How could she do this to you? You feel betrayed! Why would she make
this so difficult? Does she not realize you are doing this for her?
All this hard work, only for her!
You part leaf after leaf with your anxious fingers, growing more and
more worried — what if you cannot find that one fruit again? What if
you have to start over elsewhere?
The plant shifts, perhaps restless with your pawing of her, but just
as you are about to give up and start over on another of her vines you
spot that one elusive and shining tomato, red and gleaming in the
light. You cannot take the suspense and you stroke your hands smoothly
along the the underside of the vine to be sure to not lose it this
time.
You start to hesitate, then realize the plant needs the release more
than you need the momentary rest from your desperate search, and you
pluck the last perfect Roma from its resting place. In the blink of an
eye the vine quivers, slowly inches upwards, her load lightened.
\”That\’s it?\” you think. \”What the fuck?\”
And then you realize.
That plant. That malicious little plant and her conniving little ways.
That vine was just the beginning. You are only at the top. You have at
least a dozen more layers of fruit to pick before she is going to be
done. And then there are her sisters to take care of.
Thank goddess you get off on gardening.
