Tuesday, June 03, 2003

Bridgett in the Spring

The first time Bridgett Plum fell in love was when she was sixteen, with a cucumber. It arrived inconspicuously one spring morning with the rest of the vegetables for her parent's whole food store. Bridgett, dragged out of bed in the gray swamp of dawn, could barely stifle her yawns as she stocked the shelves and piled the produce into pyramids. Until she saw it sitting there, plump and perfectly arched, resting on top of a crate full of other less remarkable cucumbers. At first she couldn't tell what it was that made her stare at it so. She had been in the whole food business since birth, joked with the other stockers about the phallic properties of certain vegetables and fruits but until that moment she had no idea that a simple tuberous gourd could elicit such a response in her. She couldn't take her eyes off of it. So slender and green and firm to the touch. She blushed. Then looked around and saw no one cared or even noticed. She slipped the cucumber into the waistband of her jeans and shuddered at the cool sensation of its skin next to hers.

After she finished stacking the other vegetables, Bridgett, as casually as she could, snuck up the stairs to her room and hid the magnificent veggie in her underwear drawer.

There it sat until that evening, after school (through which she daydreamed beautifully strange fantasies, failing a math test in the process) and after she helped her father unload a shipment of organic shitake mushrooms. She momentarily forgot about it as she dragged herself up the stairs and into the shower. It wasn't until, wrapped in a moist towel, hair still dripping a bit that she pulled open her underwear drawer and smiled.

Hoisting the cucumber gently from its bed of cotton panties she cradled it in her hands, carrying it to her bed. There she laid it on the rumpled sheets she had neglected to make that morning. Still wearing her damp towel she climbed onto the bed next to it, never taking her eyes off its glistening surface. The arch of it caught the soft orange glow from the Chinese paper lamp hanging over her bed in such a way that she had only read about in stories by AnaÔs Nin. It was sensual, certainly. Erotic, of course but more so. It possessed something almost... mesmeric. This vegetable had an animal's charisma. A fur lined libido. For a moment she thought she saw it throb. She picked it up, gently. It was warm now, from sitting in her drawer all day and felt even warmer since she first set it on the bed as if in flagrant disregard for the laws of physics, the light spring breeze from the open window and the cool blue night had warmed it further. Or maybe it was responding sympathetically; her hands which were starting to sweat a little. She wiped them on her towel and raised the cucumber to her lips and shut her eyes and breathed heavily and kissed it. Gently. At first. Then more passionately.

Her experience with boys at that point had been primarily in kissing. But this was different. Sitting there on her bed wrapped in a moist towel, French kissing a cucumber was, she admitted to herself later, quite silly but also, enjoyable. It was better then just kissing some slobbering boy who wanted to wag his tongue and clean her teeth like he was training to be a dentist. Although the cucumber had an aura like a sausage in heat, it was passive. It did what she wanted it to do and not just because she was holding it and moving it but it almost anticipated her desires. Perhaps she had imagined that. But after several minutes of prolonged and tingling kissing that gradually progressed into licking and mouthing and then to outright fellatio before she realized it, Bridgett stopped. Slightly out of breath, she blinked as if coming out of a stupor and examined the cucumber, glistening with her saliva on the slightly less bulbous end. She paused for a moment to consider her next move and then resumed her passionate slurping of the cucumber as she untied her towel and tossed it onto the floor where it remained in a slightly damp pile until the morning.

That night she lost her virginity to the cucumber. The pain lasted only a moment. But the sensation that shuddered through her thighs and caused her to gasp and howl into her pillow (clutched by the corner in one hand and bent over her mouth at the moment of glory, lest anyone in the household be roused by her enthusiasm) that lasted all through the night and once more, shortly before sunrise.

Boys were ruined for her after that night. Not that they held much interest for her before, what with their incessant chattering about cars and sports. Now that she had Cucumber, she simply ignored them, even the boys who wrote poetry and went to the musty old Sun Theater to see the subtitled foreign films.

Of course their romance didn't last forever. Bridgett knew it never would. After all, a cucumber is a cucumber. After a week, it had wilted and finally gone flaccid in her hands. She wept for her loss, briefly and then planted him in the garden. She would, for months afterwards, fondly remember the nights they had and never once did she regret the sleep she lost that week.

Or the various nights that would follow.

After the dalliance with the cucumber Bridgett's imagination ran wild. Scarcely a vegetable could pass through her hands that she didn't way it in her palm and ponder lasciviously until she blushed.

All through that summer and into fall she experimented. Squash proved equally arousing, as did eggplants of the smaller, Chinese variety. Carrots, rhubarb and celery intrigued her but after having tasted the various members of the gourd family, they left her wanting something more substantial. Potatoes rubbed her the wrong way and she only made the mistake of inviting a jalapeÒo to her bed once. The night with the Spanish olives was a veritable an orgy while bananas lasted for such a short time as to be hardly worth the effort. Tomatoes on a hot summer night were a lovely thrill, especially when their juices would squirt all over her thighs. Lemons and limes were a kick, though more for their texture then their girth. Once she even rubbed herself off with a kiwi. She drew the line at star fruit.

Winter came and the vegetables grew fewer until the only ones that arrived were shriveled and imported from New Zealand. An early frost in Brazil wiped out a whole crop of cucumbers. Bridgett cried herself to sleep every night, and dreamed.

Until spring returned.


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