Linda Lovelace Eats a Banana
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.