I Was/Am a Fruit Fetishist
WHY YOU SHOULD CARE
Because you’ll never look at mangoes the same way again.
When people ask me what my fetish is? I say I like dogs.
Which sort of naturally means I like hairy men. That’s one.
But if you want to get closer to the truth? I find it extraordinarily attractive when guys can handle fruits. Because when a guy can handle fruits, he can handle your pussy. So this is where my fruit fetish developed, strengthened by many sexy occasions with various people since, but where did it start?
I guess getting turned on strolling through fruit markets in Australia or Mexico — the bright colors, the voluptuous shapes, the feel of different textures, the sweet scent — in the end, fruits are made for us to crave. They lust for us to eat them, taste them and take them into our bodies. I remember one of my friends saying, “Watching someone eating a sandwich, you can tell how good they are in bed.” So I’m not the only one to think that food and the act of eating are closely related to having sex.
But fruits are special. An early memory I have of a fruit encounter sliding into the erotic realm was a friend slowly peeling a mango in front of me, with me closely watching. We were still in the friendzone, but the underlying sexual tension was undeniable.
The first time we had sex was in a darkroom in Berlin’s infamous techno club Berghain on New Year’s Day — we were high on X.
He started to eat and then slurp the mango before he said, “Eating a mango is like having sex. First you are worried about all the liquids, your fingers get sticky, you try to keep it as clean as possible, but after a while, you dig your whole face in there, not caring about the juices and mess anymore, as it’s just too delicious.” That was the first time we flirted and that stuck with me.
A few months later, I was spending a night with a German man who looked like a Texan guy with bad prison tattoos. We smoked hash, listened to rock ’n’ roll and had an all-night-long sex marathon. During a break he went into the kitchen to get a mango and a massive, rusty knife that had belonged to his grandfather.
The room was dim and I was sitting on his bed, naked, facing him, watching him skillfully slicing the mango and offering it to me with both of his hands, as if it were an offering to a wild animal or part of a sexual ritual. He told me he lived a year in Mexico, which explains why he was able to cut the mango so perfectly. It was an outstanding erotic experience. As one can see, it was the mango, the queen of the fruits, that became my sexual totem.
But then I met the brothers. Two 6′3″’ Australian athletes. The first time we had sex was in a darkroom in Berlin’s infamous techno club Berghain on New Year’s Day – we were high on X, it smelled like shit, there was probably shit around, and there were 20 or more people watching us. We started to have orgies with their Australian friends. We called it fruit salad. I was a mango, the brothers were avocados and there was another passion fruit and a macadamia nut involved. That was three years ago.
And I found mango pieces for days across my room, artifacts of a special night of eight hours of sex without breaks.
First off, dating brothers can be a complex undertaking that requires sophisticated emotional skill and capacity — and an outstanding amount of horniness. We spent a magical month together living off sex, drugs and dancing, but our last night together quickly approached. Wanting it to be special, I had a plan: I wanted the brothers to fulfill a sexual fantasy of mine. Feeling slightly nervous, I told them separately to gauge their honest reaction. I wanted to feel them at the same time — I wanted them to DP, or doubly penetrate, me. I’d never done that before and just the thought of it made me incredibly aroused.
I bought bondage tape and a mango in preparation for their last night. Being a switch, I love to tie my partners up or be tied up myself. We had a good amount of MDMA in our system when the brothers started the night by tying me up and simultaneously going down on me. The night quickly got messy — with hot candle wax, showering in red wine and me screwing the brothers in turns until one of them grabbed the mango.
He bit chunks out of it, through the skin, then spit them in my mouth. Have you ever fellated someone with mango chunks in your mouth? It’s pure pleasure. We didn’t care about fluids anymore — I was rubbing the mango on my body while the brothers teamed up to lick it off. Halfway through the night, one of them asked me if they should fulfill my fantasy. I was high, covered in sweat and mango and responded, “Yes … please. Under one condition: I want to play a specific song.”
Let me jump back to 2005 first. I was 15 years old when I got introduced to glam rock by watching the Todd Haynes movie Velvet Goldmine, a fictional story of a 1970s pop star. Aside from the glamour, the gender-bending, the sex and also the abyss of the wild 1970s, there was one scene that had a lasting influence on me. It was, unsurprisingly, an orgy scene.
It was shown from the perspective of a young innocent girl who experiences the extravagant sexual laxity of the ’70s, and it was accompanied by Brian Eno’s song “Baby’s on Fire” from his 1974 album Here Come the Warm Jets. This song, with its degenerate guitar solo by legendary Robert Fripp, sparked a sexual desire, a fire — an infinite source of horniness, in a woman with nymphomaniac tendencies. It created a sexual place I was always craving to visit, but I never quite got there. The brothers knew that I loved the song, but they didn’t know that it meant so much to me.
So here we are: I’m getting DP’ed by Australian brothers while “Baby’s on Fire” fills the room. In this overwhelming moment of pleasure, I surrendered. I surrendered to the sex gods and to the sexual fire that was burning in me. I finally found the place. It felt like a milestone on the path of my very own sexual journey.
And I found mango pieces for days across my room, artifacts of a special night of eight hours of sex without breaks. I never felt so satisfied in my whole life.