Linda Lovelace Eats a Banana

bananaby Jules Archer

Every night, more often than not, I have this dream where Linda Lovelace, white-gowned and floaty, opens her throat. It’s red and it’s gaping and it’s an orifice of epic proportions.

But it’s not for me.

She has a banana. A big, gorgeous, neon-yellow banana in the palm of her hand. She squeezes tight but the skin does not break. She runs a long finger down its raised spine, nail digging into firm flesh. She speaks Shakespearean sonnets to it, cooing, holding it up and out like the skull of Yorick. She raises a brow and gives it a long gaze.

I press a hand to my crotch.

You can eat them so many ways, she tells me, wags a finger in front of my nose. Bananas. Leaves steamed, deep fried, cooked in skin, mashed or baked, do the hanky-panky and shovel some motherfuckin’ plantains into my mouth.

Linda Lovelace brushes Farrah Fawcett-ish hair away from her eye. Prances through a Florida hotel, maybe the Ritz, maybe a Motel 6, her heels tick-tick-ticking across black and white linoleum. There’s a bowl filled with bananas up in her room. Gonna do dem ol’ fruit salad blues.

In my dream I always want to cry out and say, Eat me, Linda.

But she always says no. Always says, Yellow’s better. Especially in the dark.


Somewhere between being born and raised in the backwoods of Montana, Jules Archer developed a craving for the written word. Today, she writes random stories about bananas and domestic bondage.
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