Peach of a pair?

I posted this short piece on the erotica readers site yesterday, in rsponse to a challenge from our story editor for some ‘romance’.  Here’s what she said: ” It doesn’t matter how rough it is — just sit down and write an erotic romance that will steam up the windows and melt our hearts”.  I took up the challenge and an hour later, after eating my middday meal, I went to the computer and wrote down what I had completed in my head.  Below is what I came up with.

PEACHES

Late summer is a time when many summer fruits are finished.  But it’s the time when the espaliered peach tree against the north-facing brick wall reached its time for harvest.  Well, that is, as long as the greedy parrots hadn’t worked their worst.  The Crimson Rosellas were the main offenders.  He’d put up a special feeder hanging from the Claret Ash tree just for them.  It had an opening just big enough for a Rosella, but too small for the raucous Sulphur-Crested Cockatoos, and its cylindrical body sloped to allow a gravity feed to the front.

The peaches hung, partly concealed by the foliage, glowing with golden and orange. A would-be poet, he’d written about them once.  How did it go?

“Beneath the foliage that conceals them

from the greedy parrots of Australia

are peaches.

Heavy and round,

of a wonderful flesh colour,

they hang in their place while growing ripe.”

For some reason the words brought to mind the lady who lived a few houses down the street.  She was what people called ‘full-figured’, and he smiled at the thought.  He spoke to her occasionally when they passed on the footpath, and had long admired her.  Long fair hair and lovely legs.  But he hardly knew her.

A thought came to him.  He’d save the biggest and best of his peaches and hand it to her as a tribute to her beauty.  The thought was exciting, and he recalled some more lines from the poem.

“Heavy and round in the hand,

warm with sunlight

in the early autumn,

each one to be gently,

reverently, plucked,

and then to pleasure the senses

with their rich, sweet flesh.”

‘Where did that come from?’ he thought, as he felt a definite ‘stirring in the loins’. The trope might be a cliche, but… but… ‘Oh, God!  Now I won’t be able to get her out of my mind!’

*************

‘Good morning!’ he greeted her as she passed his house.  ‘Gosh, I don’t even know your name!’

‘It’s Lorraine,’ was the smiling reply.

He noticed that there was no ring on her hand, and recalled that he’d never seen her, in the street or at the supermarket, except by herself.

‘Do you like peaches?’ he ventured.

‘Oh yes, but they’re so expensive just now,’ was her response.

‘I’d like to give you one from my tree, if I may.

‘Oh, thanks!  I’d love one.’

‘Wait a moment,’ he said, and turned to go into the house, to appear moments later with something held behind his back.  ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands,’ he requested.

He placed the peach, the last and biggest of his crop, into her hands, saying, ‘Don’t squeeze it!’

She opened her eyes and looked admiringly at the peach.  It was richly coloured and covered with a fine fuzz.

‘There you are’, he said, and then, feeling he was taking a risk, added,

‘It’s a sort of metaphor, you know.’

Lorraine looked into his eyes.  ‘I know’, she said.  ‘It’s a metaphor for your love.’

Powerful and confused feelings filled him at her words, and then she was in his arms, his hands savouring the rich curves of her back and hips, as their lips met in a kiss.

Through his inner turmoil and the pressure of his erection, he saw in his mind the last words of the poem:

“How I love to hold one

in each hand,

knowing that they will soon

give up their richness to my mouth!”

Taking her hand, he led into the house, into his bedroom.  As he slowly undressed her, the remaining lines flashed into his memory;

Heavy and round in the hand,

warm with sunlight

in the early autumn,

each one to be gently,

reverently, plucked,

and then to pleasure the senses

with their rich, sweet flesh.

Moments later, his hands were cupping her full, warm breasts, and his mouth was closing over an erect nipple.

*******************************

Here are a couple of the comments made:

“You’ve managed to capture both the sweetness and sexiness in this dreamlike eroticand romantic interlude. Left (me) with a warm and fuzzy feeling.”    “…it’s lovely, delicious is the word, and, yes, romantic.”

Poets are consummate liars

Poets have to convey their message by indirect means, since to do it directly would necessitate prose in most cases.  So poets use metaphor, terms with rich associations, unwritten and unspoken but implied indirectly, and frankly untrue statements to help make their point within the constraints of poetry.

I am an inveterate romantic, and so I tend to romanticise descriptions of events for greater emphasis, and better poetic impact.  A partner once made the mistake of taking the words of a poem literally as a description of real events instead of a poetic mix of fantasy, reality and romance.  She did not understand that poetry is an end in itself, that a greater truth than the real one can be depicted in verse, and that the poet is attepting to initiate a desired response in the reader.  To do so with success requires consummate lying.