The two-timing, greenish, cloth backpack I haul into the city fell apart on me again. This time, however, as the zipper split open and the contents of the bag spread out onto the cement floor, what was inside turned out to be stranger than my standard fare.
There was a sex toy in my produce.
It all started on my way home from Manhattan. I had just finished vegetable shopping and was eager to get back to Brooklyn and make a trial run of something I’d learned in Go Fuck Yourself, A Mini-Zine devoted to D.I.Y. Sex Toys and Gender-Bending Devices, a pamphlet that, by the way, has a fabulous section on produce.
In any case, there I am in the middle of the platform as things tumble out of my ho-bag, one compromising item after another. At first I scramble around the station in an attempt to catch the runaway zucchinis, then, of course, the carrot bundle slips out of its vegetable strap. To round out the scene, a heap of collard greens cushion the fall of the unfortunately decisive and yet oh-so agreeably pliant object, the eight inch silicone dildo.
And don’t forget the crowd. If you’re having trouble picturing the atmosphere of it all, remind yourself of the Sesame Street sing-along “One of These Things (Is Not Like The Others).” That’s the one where the audience of screaming children picks out an object that doesn’t fit. This time around, however, the object has a flared base and, as they are turning away the eyes of their kids, the parents glare at me like I’ve said one dirty, dirty word.
