An invitation to my lover.
For I have, I am a
fig. And a fig wishes to be eaten.
It is just
mid-morning, not the right time or proper way in society for a fig to be eaten.
Apparently. Fruits, glistening wet in their ripeness, juicy and soft like satin
pillow talk in a public square, have been ordained as dessert. Desserts are to
be partaken off after an unhurried dinner.
The figs are in a
glass bowl by the side, over there, covered in a blue, lacey cloth. By the time
we are ready for dessert, they will be close to bursting with anticipation, the
red in the blue, the blue embroidered by then with the leaking juices of the
ripened fruits.
The table is set for
many, though there are only two guests tonight. Red wine in translucent
decanters is set aside two inches from the rose pink plates, to moisturize the
tongue after a bite of the meatballs, perfectly round, as if they were formed
on a lathe.
Here is how dinner,
before dessert is served, is to be conducted.
In our part of the
country, we eat carrots with the first drink of whisky, to loosen the tongue. I
drink to unbridle the tight blouse I am wearing tonight, it did what I wanted
it to do when I rang the bell. You opened the tall teak door and couldn’t raise
your lascivious eyes to meet mine. There is a bowl of creamy mayonnaise to dip
the raw, small strips of carrots in. Let’s have our usual conversation as I
slip one strip into the mayo, twist it slowly in the bowl and bring it to my
slightly open mouth, sliding it in while you talk of insurance or of drawing me
nude. The carrot crunches, when I take a sharp bite….what was I saying, you
will ask me, distracted.
Several fingers of
whisky down from a full bottle, my hair open now and in disarray, let’s sit
down to dinner. Of the pearly strands of rice I place for myself on a plate,
one manages to sit against the hollow of my neck. I wonder how. Maybe I placed
it there myself. You do want to wrap your tongue around it and eat it, don’t
you?
Dinner.
I do like a fancy
sit-down at times, languid servings of three and a half courses, even if we
have to serve it ourselves. You want to get to dessert mid-way. Wait, my
darling, let the torture of longing for something sweet on your tongue stretch
a little more. The fig that we are having after this meal will ripen some more
by then, fed on the wine, oiled by the creamy coconut curry with mollusks,
make-believe oysters, that we are eating.
This curry is real
good. So good that against etiquette, I want to put the fork aside and use my
fingers to mix in the fleshy mollusk with the rice. I am certain the yellow of
the turmeric will seep into my fingers, the smell of the spices will embed
itself into my skin and mix with other smells later tonight. This makes me want
to put each of my fragrant fingers into my mouth and suck the smells of you in.
I have always loved the way you cook. Will you want to lick the spices off my
fingers too? Shall we save it for foreplay, your tongue jogging lazily up and
down each of my fingers?
Do we have curd for
tonight, before the fruit? Curd is supposed to cool the body down. Figs in
yoghurt must be a super food sometime.
The fig is a gorgeous
fruit, wouldn’t you agree? Reddish brown, bordering on shiny black on the
outside with a pinched bottom that makes its cheeks stand out against a hand. I
like it best when it is split open though. The two lips part at the exact
centre to reveal the fig’s secrets. They say, like a woman, the fig’s secrets
must not be revealed, and that she must always fold unto herself, keep her body
unuttered. They say that showing my secret will be the way I shall die. I
laugh. I am a fig and for certain I shall keep, even when I am over-ripe and
burst into your mouth in all crimson and velvet glory. Some might say the figs
taste best when over-ripe.
I will not let you die
either. Make way for my ecstasy, tonight and for every night we eat together.
Hold the door open, I promise not to shut it behind me. I am a fig but not its
wasp, and a world of mere women isn’t for me.
I am a fig and my
secret is this. The night is suddenly
upon us, a starless night/ You lighting a candle, carrying it naked/ Into our
bedroom and blowing it out quickly,/ The dark pines and grasses strangely
still. On such a glorious ink blue night, behind my parted lips are tiny
jewels, transparent, shining in the dark, ready to be eaten, or worn around
your waist. The honey, thick as sticky paste, lives within only when I am ripe.
Fully, wholly ripe, glittering, rosy, honeyed, ready for you.
How will you eat a
fruit tonight? Let me count the ways.
You could take it in
your hand, squeeze it a little between your palm to release the juices within
first. Break off the stem. The flesh is a shade of flaming crimson, the white
milk surrounds the edges, nearly falling off now. Hold between two flimsy
fingers the edge of the skirt and peel off, slowly. It is nicer that way, when
slow. A ripe fruit will not be able to stand this measured torment, the
moistness will seep through the flesh and drop into your hands. Lick away the
juices, won’t you? Peel away my skirt, my skin and part my lips. Look at me and
make me blush. I beg you, put two fingers in and hunt for your treasure, for
the rubies, for the diamonds which hide away on a bed of cool fluids, communal
like the other bodily fluids we share.
Or take me in your
mouth, one gentle bite at a time, twirling your tongue around the very centre
of me, there where I keep that translucent honey you like so much.
Or just be vulgar and
put your mouth to the crack, and suck away the whole wet flesh in one large
bite.
How will you eat a fig
tonight?
Dessert is for after
dinner, apparently. And it is only mid-morning now. But as I sit across you now
in this room where the sun splits into thin slivers of warm gold and stardust,
I couldn’t care less about the hour. I let the fig run through the gaps of my
fingers just now. The ripeness is just right. Not too soft and lush that it
will burst into fire and rain its secrets upon your first touch. Not too raw
that you will have to tease her with nibbles all over and a sweet tongue before
she yields almost reluctantly and lets you have your way.
So what if this hour
is not the ordained hour? The fig is bursting with hues of crimson and fiery
purple. Just at the perfect stage of full-flavoured maturity. Why wait till
after dinner?
Let’s serve ourselves
dessert. Right now.
All images courtesy of Nadia Ayari.