The Watermelon (gastronomic erotica)

The Watermelon

(gastronomic erotica)

This is goddamn great to step into your own kitchen in the morning, when stretching out to full length after sleep and, with a glitter of foreseen satisfaction in your eyes, find a huge half of a cut watermelon on the clean table made of snow-white plastic! "This is not a dream," runs through your head; it is before you that there sits the very same fruit taken from the fridge, slightly icy, with a typical transparent rind of the colour of frozen cucumber.

Shortly after a second you with a knife make an approach to it, setting to as if you have set about it. With its rind on the side, you are only touching the flesh.

Seeds periodically are being removed to the sides of the soggy pulp and straight onto the plate under the watermelon. You are stealing up to its centre. This is always with a sliding movement that it thawed bit by bit out into your stomach, thus sending the first wave of shivers up and down the devourer's spine and the outer side of his/her thigh.

At some point you appear to be on the horns of a dilemma whether to continue to carve out crusty blood red sludge of the bottom of the formed bowl, while at risk to be phalanx deep buried in cold watermelon juice stinging your fingers, or to drink it by grabbing this big cup with both hands, after having already watched it play in your palms up in the air.

Although I am not timid, I opt to sip a little bit of the nourishing liquid. I bring the watermelon close to my lips. Man, what an unexcelled feeling! Feels like drinking ambrosia!

It only seems that there is nothing to be cut out. Your mind ordains that you should take every effort of yours, so you do go on further wielding the knife energetically like a real butcher or at least like a lazy housewife, which is the same, as you can see. I shall try to explain why; just watch him behind the counter, his axe in his hands, and her in a long session of cooking, both simply sick and tired: him of monotonous work, her of too thorough carving. And their thoughts currently tally with mine: "I say! Here, this is not altogether cut out, there at a sinew, that is a little meat left. Oh, hold it! I won't do that!"

Your state of being fed up is indicated by the appearance of increasingly developed green and that of red fading into unhealthy pink. Done! I have finished.

Soon afterwards one must think of how he can manage to get to make it, if far away.

8 July 1999