Over at the Walrus blog I reflect on the pornograhic potential of produce. Along the way I talk about Lisa Moore, Cynthia Flood, Philip Roth and Andrew “vegitable love” Marvell. You can read the essay here.
My thoughts in this direction were prompted by the fact that I’ve recently encountered two separate short stories, both from first-rate Canadian writers, featuring sex and… cucumbers.
In Cynthia Flood’s “Watching,” from her 1992 collection My Father Took a Cake to France, the narrator recalls, “Hands. Allan’s fingers. He did that for me maybe seven times in seven years. Once I took a real cucumber.” Lisa Moore offers an even steamier scene of cucumber arousal. In Moore’s story “Granular,” from her 1995 debut collection Degrees of Nakedness, we’re told of this memorable event: “You move the cucumber down the ridges of my neck, chest bone, circle one nipple, a shiny snail’s trail down my belly. Icy on my clitoris, numbing. You hold it gently down against the opening of my vagina.”