This morning, I woke up humming, absolutely arbitrarily, the refrain “movin’ to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches”. It took me a few moments to remember that it was the opening lyric of a song from the mid-90s. When I recalled that it was by a band named PUSA (Presidents of the USA) and made the obvious phonetic associations, my day began in an auspiciously giggly mood.
If you have missed my gist entirely, I can only direct you to T S Eliot, whose constantly-ailing J Alfred Prufrock rues his lack of luck with women and ponders, “Do I dare eat a peach?” Though, of course, peaches aren’t for all of us. This reminds me of all the suburban legends I’ve heard about people who really, really love their fruits and veggies (let’s call it ‘pulp fiction’). This one is set in one of those educational institutions in which male and female students are segregated to such an extent that the water in those campuses become so excessively virile that even the boys risk pregnancy.
That the young woman in this apocryphal tale took a liking to bananas will sound just like any hostel story you might already know involving carrots or cucumbers (of the venerable and trusty lady’s finger, one never hears). That the banana took too much of a liking to her, got stuck and started rotting over the course of several days will also remind you of those wickedly hilarious medical emergencies these stories always seem to end up in. But the really juicy part? It seems that after this unfortunate incident, bananas in the women’s canteen of the institution are only served chopped. The men’s canteen continues to serve them whole. Boys, apparently, don’t like bananas. No word, however, on how apple pies are served.
I mean, you’ve got to wonder: why are all these sex-crazed orchard-marauders always girls? Why not boys?
If these stories have any truth in them, I think it’s fantastic that these girls have sexual agency even in such repressed environments. I don’t see a cause for shame in the least. In fact, I feel sorry for the boys who are expected to be ripe with lust, and whose sexual escapades lack the extra succulence that all fruit that is forbidden has.
And there isn’t that much that is forbidden to the heterosexual male in our society.
I hope this isn’t going to influence any young man with impressionable mind into expressing his raw longing with pineapples, or channeling his desperation into dates with dates. If it does, and if a proctologist and an institutional policy change get involved, I’d hope it makes its way into the rich archive of similar-rumoured romances.
Still, I’ll say this: if sexually assaulting the grocery bag is a temporary phase, there is one thing in particular one can practice on. It’s the straight man’s (and zigzaggy lady’s) only known permanent cure for desperation. The question is: do you dare eat a peach?