Father of Fruits

I’m surprised I was able to cum at all— condoms have always pissed me off. I miss when Maria would let me hit it raw, back before that time she made me blow a week’s pizzeria paycheck on Plan B. I remember that night in bits and pieces: back of my mom’s beige minivan, earthy weed and “New Car Scent” clashing in the air, and my hand cupping Maria’s big mouth, smearing purple lipstick down her chin like she had gorged on blueberry pie face-first. I’m almost totally sure I pulled out— at least most of the way. She was just being OCD about the whole thing.

I slump against the tree’s girthy trunk and peel the slimy latex off, fumbling a bit as I tie a leak-proof knot. Those grueling 5 minutes of thrusting left me out of breath, which I’m hoping Maria won’t notice— my dad always tells me that weak guys don’t get pussy like the jocks do. Regardless, Maria’s too busy squeezing her ass into low-rise jeans to even spare a glance in my direction, let alone take note of my asthmatic breathing.

Something I’ve come to accept about Maria is that she religiously shaves head to toe, save for the overly bleached, haylike hair on her head. She keeps it bald down there, too, which she claims is for my benefit. I can’t work up the nerve to tell her that I find the whole thing disturbing, because when she sweats, she’s like a fish out of water, slick and rubbery and flopping around in my hands. It’s unnatural, just like the rest of her, but it’s the only pussy in my grade that has let me in, so I look past it for our quick fucks.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask, chucking the condom over my shoulder and hearing it splat against a tree. Maria scoffs.

“My parents are expecting me,” she recites from her usual script.

“Well did you, uh... y’know...?” I inquire with a wink.

“Sure,” Maria deadpans. She lets out a prolonged sigh, unsmiling.

My head leans lazily against the bark and I start mindlessly fingering some moss beside my thigh. Slowly, I press down; the dirt is warm and wet— softer than Maria. Soon, I’m two knuckles deep, tickling the tips of some roots I come across.

“Well what are you doing tomorrow night?” I inquire. “Maybe you and I cou–”

“Come on, Jack. You know the deal... twice a week max so my folks don’t get suspicious.” She turns and starts to saunter home, hips swaying confidently despite the dirt smeared across the back of her jeans. “But thanks for the dick,” she calls out over her shoulder.

Then, there is a gentle thud against the ground. The instigator of the noise rolls toward me, stopping once it taps against the side of my foot. It’s an apple with curiously archetypal qualities: perfectly round, a spotless crimson, even one trademark leaf birthing from its stem... it’d be a preschool teacher’s wet dream. Intrigued, I pick it up, using my removed sock to brush off bits of dirt.

I peer a little closer. The shade reminds me of Maria’s cheeks, full and brimming with the warmth of blood that only I could rouse with my sexual prowess.

“Don’t mind if I do...” and crunch.

I split the apple’s flawless skin, prompting an immediate oozing of juice – no, more like sap – that is so sweet and exquisite, it loops around each tooth like Christmas ribbon and makes my cavities quiver with thrill. I chew. The nectar dips in and out of the crevices between my gums and molars like a dolphin submerging itself in the sea and then coming up for air, again and again and again.

A moan escapes my lips, long and quaking and ending desperately, like a whine. I feel it deep within me, vibrating down my esophagus and spreading through my wanton stomach, tickling its way down to a dick I didn’t know could get hard again so soon after sex. It’s the tartness I’ve been looking for— a certain spunk that Maria couldn’t provide.

I grip the tree for support, and with my vision nearly doubled from overwhelming bliss, the trunk seems to nearly pulsate. It could be breathing, and the winding pattern of its bark could be its veins, pumping sweetness into its luscious offspring.

With a long exhale, I look up at the thick curtain of leaves protecting my naked body from the sun. The brush is dotted with dozens of rich-red orbs, and I realize that until this very moment, I have never known true hunger.

Maria’s mouth tastes like the eggs she had for breakfast. We didn’t even eat together, but the way her tongue is squishing against mine makes my tortured taste buds certain that they were cooked over-easy— dripping with yolk mucus and everything. I’d gauge that we’ve been standing in this same patch of dirt swapping spit for about 20 minutes, because I’ve managed to play through the entirety of “Free Bird” in my head twice now. I was even careful to mentally nail every note of the epic guitar solo, which is no easy feat. Lynyrd Skynyrd isn’t necessarily my favorite listen – nor is alternative music in general – but it’s imprinted onto my brain from years of forced guitar lessons with my metalhead father.

I don’t acknowledge that my arms have been resting at my sides for the entire makeout session until Maria grabs me aggressively by the wrists and pulls my hands to clutch her breasts. Her rougher advances typically turn me on, but I can feel her new implants squirming around in my grasp, reminding me that her body is all plastic pesticide, ridding my dick of life.

I open my eyes as her slobbery lips continue to smack against my stiff ones. From this angle, I can see pale yellow crust forming around Maria’s eyebrow piercing she never cleans, and her clumpy eyelash extensions look like oversized millipedes. Thankfully, she pulls away then, giving me a creepy, lopsided smirk that reminds me of my dad right after his stroke. Fat chance I’ll be able to get it up now.

Maria slithers her way down my body and I hear her knees plop against the ground in front of me, crushing a few dead leaves. Instead of directing my sights downward as she unzips my pants, I gaze at a branch above-head with a particularly plump-looking apple dangling from one of its twigs. My mouth instantly waters, but the atrocious slurping sound coming from below restricts my libido.

“Really? Again?” Maria poorly articulates with her mouth full of limp penis. She comes up for air and her chest stutters with a gag. “Don’t make me waste my time.”

Delicately, I wedge my nails into a crevice of the tree’s bark and pick off a jagged piece. I bring it right against my nostrils and inhale its pheromones so deeply, I think I might pass out. A tide of goosebumps crashes down the stretch of my skin— the scent is equal parts dirty and pure.

“Are you even listening to me?” Maria shouts, killing my buzz. She rises to her feet and stomps a few steps back. “You know what, fuck it.” She gathers her things.

The moment that Maria’s departing form is out of sight behind a faraway hill, I get to work. Back at the start of the summer, I’d have to tediously count 15 paces north from this tree in order to locate the ladder I’d hidden in a certain set of bushes, but by now, I could do it blindfolded. I reach into the dark depths of prickly twigs and my hand instantly comes in contact with the comforting texture of smoothed fir. With a humiliating deal of strain, I manage to lug the rickety ladder back to the tree and prop it up against the trunk.

“Finally,” I say between wheezes. “Just you and me.”

Climbing up the ladder is no hassle; I’ve become accustomed to skipping over the handful of missing rungs and know exactly where the splinter risk zones are. However, it’s the view from the very top that still makes me queasy. I gulp, forcing down hints of acidic, rising bile.

At last, I am face-to-face with the same voluptuous apple I was pining for before. Dew coats its exterior in a glistening sheen and it dampens my palm as I caress its curves. Foreplay isn’t worth the tease, so I get right to it.

Grip. Pluck. Sniff. Lick. Bite. Crunch. Profit.

It’s gone in an instant, all besides the core, from which I suck anything I can get. Then, as usual, I grab another – no, two, or maybe three – and repeat the process until I feel an increasing pressure against my too-tight jeans.

My two hands are no match for carrying the vast number of apples hanging before me, so I begin collecting them in a makeshift pouch I fashion by holding up the bottom hem of my shirt. I take a massive bite out of each as I add them to the pile, and before I know it, they’re practically stacked to eye-level. I’ve gathered as many apples as I can see from my limited point of view, other than one, positioned just a few inches out of reach.

I extend my hand, and as the ladder wobbles with a chilling creak, I am horrifically reminded of my elevation from the ground yards below. But I can’t let this one go— I’m getting close already.

I stretch my arm further than I believed was humanly possible, and fear it might pop right out of my shoulder.

“Almost... there...” I cry out, and what follows is a blur.

The ladder leans onto only one supporting leg. Just in time, I grip the tree trunk with petrified noodle arms, steadying myself, but dropping every piece of sacred fruit from my shirt. I can hardly hear their collisions with the ground over the ringing in my ears. It’s more like a distant drum circle, lively and symphonic, and I didn’t get the invite.

A gust of autumn wind causes a branch beside me to sway, molding it into a gentle curve. The far end of the branch crosses my body and presses into my back, applying slight pressure and further cementing me to the trunk. A one-armed hug.

I sink into it, breathing perfectly in time with the timber.

The snow is soiled as I leave a trail of burnt-orange liquor-splatters behind me. I forgot to wear a jacket and I feel my shoes getting soaked as I trudge on, but the whiskey keeps me warm – or numb, at least – so I take yet another swig. As much as I chug, I find that thirst persists like a pesky popcorn kernel lodged deep within a gum’s pocket, impossible to dig out.

I stop before the tree, swaying slightly in place.

“It’s Maria... she and I are done. My buddies don’t believe me, but I swear it’s really over.”

I wipe something wet from my cheeks, which must be an accumulation of snowflakes. It can’t be tears— I don’t do that kind of thing. The tree shakes violently in the unrelenting wind, its branches mostly bare; they’re crooked like thin fingers broken at each joint.

“And the worst part is,” I interrupt myself with a swig, “she didn’t even let me get some one last time. Can you imagine being so fucking selfish?”

Nothing from the tree; I’m not even sure that I see it breathing anymore. Panic starts in my stomach and expands outward until my skin is throbbing, ready to burst.

“Listen, I— I’m gonna need you to help me out, okay?” I stumble towards the same-old bushes, making it there and back in half the time as usual.

“I know you’re tired,” I say, setting up the soggy ladder. “But I’m tired too. Doesn’t that mean something to you? To anyone, for fuck’s sake?!”

I toss the whiskey bottle into the snow and it falls on its side, bleeding out lazily. I step onto the lowest rung of the ladder, feel the bottom of it squelch into the sopping ground, and climb.

“There’s gotta be at least one up there, right? You have to have something for me.”

I’m halfway to the top, and it isn’t looking any more promising.

“What do I have to do, huh? Spank you ‘til you pop one out?” I remove one hand from the rung and slap the side of the trunk with as much force as I can muster, scraping my palm raw. I don’t feel it.

“What, that wasn’t enough? You want more?” I laugh big and hearty with whiskey-spit dribbling down my chin. “Ever been fisted, you big slut?” I send my strongest lead hook straight into the center of the trunk, breaking nothing but the bones in my knuckles. The power of the punch wiggles the ladder, but I pay little mind.

The frosted branches are naked. They’re vulnerable, just the way I like them. One by one, I grab any twig I can get my hands on and break them off, chucking them to the ground down below. Tug, snap, throw. Tug, snap, throw. Tug, snap—

And the slushy mud gets the best of me. With one blink and one resounding crash, the ladder is on the ground, and it appears that I am, too. The thick layer of snow doesn’t cushion the blow nearly as much as I thought it would.

A sideways view of the woods makes it seem like the trees are sprouting leftward. A pool of redness expands out from where my head is resting on a rock, and I think of her— not Maria, but that first juicy apple that set the bar higher than any female parts could meet.

I fight to reach my hand out, which has lost nearly all feeling, and scoop up a ball of the reddened snow like a snow-cone server at a fair. I hear the carnival music now, alive and bubbly, prodding my brain with each note. I see golden rows of lights behind my drooping eyelids and I smell warm, buttered popcorn soothing me in a greasy embrace. The music is louder now, flooding my head with a melody that presses hard against my skull. I taste the crisp, metallic treat melting bright red in my palm, and something rises, fast and hard.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan through the blood in my teeth. “I’m gonna... I’m gonna—