by Shanna Germain
(07/23/03)
Its round, red shape has enticed me in grocery stores and vegetarian magazines for as long as I can remember. And, once, I saw a sample split open in a health-food store, filled with beautiful, blood-red seeds, waiting impatiently to for someone to pick them up, fondle them with a tongue, slowly suck out their juices. In the past, others have warned me against the fruits, mainly due to the difficulty of eating them. "It's more work than lobster, and doesn't taste half as good," cautioned one friend. "It's messy," said my husband.
But when I saw them piled high at the grocery story yesterday, I couldn't resist any longer. I wanted to know what it was like, to split open the thick skin, to have it erupt in my hand, to squeeze the seeds between my fingers and lick off the juice.
Grabbing one of the pomegranates, I ran to the nearest fruit assistant before I could change my mind. "How do I know if this is ripe?" I asked.
"Oh," she said, leading me back to the place where I'd chosen my new fruit. "It should be really red, and full and plump. Heavy almost, as though it might burst in your hand." She delicately picked through the fruits, gently squeezing each one with careful, practiced fingers. "Oh, this is good," she placed it in my hand. "See, how the skin is soft when you press it?" I felt its smooth, leathery surface, and the way it gave just a little beneath the pressure of my fingers. "Wow," I said, and she smiled back as though we shared a secret. "I know," she said. "Isn't it the most amazing thing?"
"What's the best way to eat it?"
"Oh," she said excitedly. "Here's my favorite way: you roll it between your hands, or on the counter, like you're rolling dough." She demonstrated, rolling one of the fruits between her palms. Then, she held the fruit close to me ear. "Can you hear the seeds breaking open?" I nodded. "Once you hear that, you can make a slit in the skin and drink the juice right through it," she said. "After that, you just split it open and eat the rest of the seeds."
I wanted to ask her if she'd come home with me, to show me how it was done, to help me make sure I was doing it right, but all I could get out was a whispered thank you before I practically ran out of the grocery store, red fruit cradled in my palm.
At home, I placed it on the counter, its rotundness beckoning all day as I walked by it, made lunch, washed dishes. I could almost see it out of the corner of my eye, growing plumper by the hour. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.... I picked it up and began rolling it between my fingers. Oh, the joy! With each turn, I could hear the seeds inside popping, like bubble wrap -- Pip! Pip! Pip! I rolled it between my palms. I pressed it against the table. I thigh-mastered it between my legs, feeling its skin give under the pressure. Soon, the popping ended, and I knew that my little pomegranate was ready.
I cut a slit in the skin, and out poured the red juice, faster than I expected, splashing on the counter, across my face. It was sweet and tangy, and I felt like I couldn't get enough of it. When I was sure that I had drunk all that it contained, I split open the skin and scooped the seeds out with my fingers. They tasted much like the juice, only they crunched in a way that made them even more satisfying. I was dazzled, delighted -- I wanted to call every food-sex lover that I knew, I wanted to throw my husband down on the bed, I wanted...well, let's just say I wanted.
But I've decided to keep this as my own little secret. A fruit-masturbation if you will. A secret afternoon pleasure that makes me a little flush, that brings me back to the scent and feel of the earth, the joy of working my fingers against skin and juice for my own pleasure.
When my husband got home yesterday, he took one look at the demolished fruit -- "A pomegranate?" he asked, with a wrinkle in his nose.
"Yes, a pomegranate," I said as I walked toward him, holding out my red-stained fingers. "Want a taste?"
