I’m tired of all the games played by fruit, fooling us into thinking they’re ripe.  Except for bananas.  Personally I get along with bananas pretty well.  If only other fruits would develop spots.

My main struggle is trying to determine when my fruit has had enough foreplay and is ready for action.  Some seem so fickle, so ephemeral, so cold, until one day out of the blue, when you’re least prepared for them, they scream, take me now or lose me forever.

The other day I bought some peaches.  I was sure they were ready to become one with me as they were provocatively soft when I adopted them from the store, but as soon as I cut into one it was obvious it had tricked me, with its hard-as-rock abs laughing at my desires, like a woman who knows I’ve gone too long without and am thus at her mercy.  So I let the other peaches bathe in the soothing shadows of my kitchen for a couple of days and almost over night they went from radiant looking peaches to what appeared to be shriveled up gonads from too much radiation.

I know, I lost my appetite, too.

I’ve also battled pears and mangoes.  You cut into them prematurely and they scream statutory rape.  It seems I have to wait until they have the skins of 80 year olds before they are ready to lose their virginity, and then they must be deflowered quickly before old age sets in and even organ donation is out of the question.

Some say that fruit intentionally seduces us into planting more of them, a strategy for successful species propagation.  They figured out how to take over the world by manipulating the dominant species.  We think we are manipulating them, using breeding techniques to make them sweeter, hardier, more resistant to disease, but it’s the other way around.  They have us under their control.  Some say we shouldn’t even eat them at all – too much natural sugar, messing with our blood chemistry.  Others say only eat them by themselves, never with, or after, any other food lest they cause that food to ferment in your gut, so only eat them in the morning.  Then there are the fruitarians, outcasts from society, ruining their lives, given over completely to the alluring qualities of sugary fruits, and all the while I suspect fruit doesn’t want to be eaten at all, they’re just using us to expand their numbers, and are willing to sacrifice many of their own to make it happen.  We cover the planet with them, praise them like coquettish gods, often buying them in bulk and putting them out on display, on our tables or countertops in lovely bowls to show off our aristocratic nobility, only to toss half of them out, wasted in a landfill, or thrown into the woods, out our car windows with disgust.  I say the hell with fruit, robbing me of my income – five dollars for a few handfuls of berries – though at least oranges tend to be a happy bunch.  It seems I seldom if ever meet one that isn’t ready and willing, always eager to be stripped of its clothing – even if it is past its juiciest prime it can still be delightfully juiced.

Someone once told me to hide my fruit in a paper bag, like a drunk with a bottle, as if shame is the way to go.  Humiliation.  Teach them a lesson, force them to become ripe on demand, though with my recent peach purchase, with their soft skins and hard abs and quick deterioration, laid to rest without ever having experienced a fulfilling life, I doubt the bag trick would have done much good.

Maybe if I talked to them, played some mellow music, let them sleep with me in my bed.  Am I alone at this quest, to always have a harem of fruit waiting to please, but failing miserably, while everyone else has them tamed and mastered?  Let me know if you have any secrets.  I’m really tired of having fruit go bad.