I would fantasize about them all winter. As the snow mounted and the darkness of the season began to invade the days, I became obsessed.
Supple. Lush. Juicy.
Standing at the bus stop every morning, wrapped in four shirts and a winter coat to keep warm, I would pull my scarf in front of my mouth and breathe heavily into the fabric. But the real warmth came from the fragile memories of running the tip of my tongue across the texture of their skin, nibbling, and eventually frantically stuffing them into my mouth.
I could vividly imagine the juice exploding across my tongue — a sensation that always felt new and exciting.
Strawberries. At the age of four my favorite t-shirt featured a big strawberry plastered across my chest. In the third grade I composed a literary ode to strawberries, declaring my favorite color to be red on account of strawberries. This wasn’t just lust, it was a love complete with mystery and romance.
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