Tucked under the velveteen fuzz of this tame church lady’s Easter dress is something sticky, a splurt of nectar that slobbers from lips and drips down chins. A colour drawn from the sliced flesh of a fresh peach, that hairy little heartstone is a tooth-chipping dirty joke underneath all that lovely sweet meat. “I really love your peaches, want to shake your tree,” croons Steve Miller in his ‘pompatus of love’. A wholesome desire, carnal without corruption, its colour a…
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