Decay

On my way back to the dorm tonight, I passed the fruit shop, thinking I might buy a banana. But everywhere I looked was fruit gone rotten — spoiled pieces tossed into a box off to the side, days of rising temperature turning them yellow and rancid, like pastries dusted with white powder, reeking of decay.

The banana is one of my favorite fruits, because its shape so closely resembles a plump male member. Peeling back the yellow skin with your hand is a gesture every boy seems to make at some point. Gently running your tongue across the tip, you can feel a thousand thoughts stirred up by the soft, slick texture of the outer layer; bite down hard enough and you might just squeeze out a bit of banana juice right onto the tip of your tongue. Though if you bite too hard, it might slip right out the side of your mouth — and even so, it never quite escapes that phallic shape.

Mr. A says Mr. B is foolish; Mr. B fires back that Mr. A is full of himself. It’s as if the two of them are squeezing the member inside themselves, each trying to provoke the other’s worship of it — but no matter how hard they squeeze, that thing will never produce fruit. Decay, meanwhile, has taken root in the heart. From the surface inward, from the inside out — even every drop of fresh, raw semen reeks of decay.

Or perhaps my own life is decaying too. Like fruit abandoned in summer.