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fridayflashIt’s still Friday, right?  I made it in under the wire?  Whew, that was close!  Here’s my first contribution to #fridayflash!  And now I present to you:

When a Man Goes Bad

“I’ll bring it right in, Sweetie,” I say, smiling through gritted teeth.  But more and more the act has grown harder to swallow.  Night after night, her obsession with the succulent fruit drives me to a point I have only barely been able to avoid until now.  Sure, sure; I’m probably a contributor, but I thought I was in love.  I guess I Have to admit that I might be partly to blame for our mushy dilemma.

From the time we met that delicious fall day I was aware of her passion.  Though at first I figured she just liked mangoes a lot, I was now — three years later — aware that they were her tender obsession, practically her reason for being.  Personally, I hate mangoes and how they mock my affection.  Little do they realize that they are the reason I will take pleasure in this evening.

You see, the flood of fruit at breakfast, lunch and dinner, either as part of an entrée or in some sort of side dish, was bad enough.  Then came the mango juices and jellies, and oh that horrid Scrumptious Mango Pie last Thanksgiving.  I would have to say though, that the worst was the evening I came home from work and caught her in the living room enjoying one of the fresh, juicy orbs alone.

But to say she was enjoying it would understate my point.  She was enraptured by it, involved in it.  Without a sound, I stuck to the shadows, leering as she bit slowly into the viscous flesh, savoring the piece, refusing to swallow the juice.  The runny liquid flowed down her chin as she took her second bite.  The look on her face was one I had not seen since our wedding night.  If I didn’t know her better, I would have said she found the food erotic.  I watched her relish each subsequent mouthful, never swallowing that damn liquid, instead letting it soak her light blouse.  She would massage the flavorful fluid into the fabric covering her tender breasts.  Was this something new, or had she been taking pleasure in this activity since before I had met her?  Either way, I was becoming jealous of a frigging fruit.

So began my quest for an end to her unfaithfulness.  Each night before bed, My Love would have me cut her a mango into sections.  Bite-sized morsels were her preference, skin off and the pit thrown out.  This evening as hundreds of others, the first couple she would want fed to her.  I would once again cringe with an uncomfortable smile, watching her devour each soggy piece.  She was not subtle about the action either; not shy about slurping the nibbles, sucking on them with a voracious, sickening sound.  The son-of-a-bitching fruit gets the pleasure I should be receiving and gives the joy I should be returning.

So here I stand, preparing the dessert once again for the girl I love.  The blade in my hand is much larger than I need to carve the succulent fruit, and those unaware might even call it overkill.  I am quite sure however that the mango will not be its only intended victim this evening.  A quiet laugh streams from my throat as I watch the mango bleed onto the platter, thinking to myself how sweet the revenge will be — and I snicker at the double entendre.  I have had enough of cutting and feeding the spongy scraps to my Sweets, watching her night after night in a dripping, gooey, fruity orgasm.

Finally, the pieces are perfect and ready for her.  I have cut them into almost exact squares, lining them up like ripe little soldiers.  The mango, the knife and I then make our way to the bedroom.  I am now ready to free her from the unnatural control the fruit has over My Love.  Tonight I will join her for the slurpy evening of conscious infidelity and this time I am going to enjoy it.

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