“Is this ripe?”

I glanced around to see where the voice had come from. The only person in the produce section other than me was a handsome, muscular, thirty-ish guy in a pair of snug jeans and tight, navy-blue t-shirt that stretched across his broad pecs and clung to his big, round shoulders.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, meekly, not entirely sure that anyone had asked me anything at all.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a random question, but I really have no idea,” replied the cute guy standing near the melons. “My wife asked me to pick up a cantaloupe, and I have no idea which ones are the good ones!”

I stood there for a moment, ready to burst out laughing, but when my eyes met with this poor fellow’s own, droopy, bewildered baby blues, I realized he was genuinely distressed by his predicament. Who was I to pray on his misery?!

I wheeled my cart over and parked it next to his beside the center island that played temporary home to an assortment of cantaloupes, honeydews, and watermelons. “Well, cantaloupe is tricky,” I said as I picked up one of the melons.

Rotating it in my hands, bouncing its weight with a dropping and catching motion of my arm, and giving it a gentle squeeze about its rough, striated texture, I explained, “You see, you want it to be firm. But not too firm. When you squeeze it, it should have roughly the same texture and give as a well-toned ass.”

“Okay, now you’re just messing with me,” the poor naïve husband in the tight blue tee responded.

“No, no really,” I said. “Here, squeeze my ass if you don’t get what I’m saying. I keep myself in shape. It’s pretty firm, but still soft enough…” I could tell I had crossed the line from mildly amusing stranger to obnoxious gay guy. “Sorry,” I cut myself off. “There’s truth to it though.”

I set down the cantaloupe I had been kneeding and throttling and plucked another from the batch. Working it over with the same routine, I deemed it worthy of this handsome gentleman’s purchase and handed it to him. “Here, this one’s good.”

“Thanks a lot.” He took the melon and tossed it in his cart. With a nod of his head he wheeled his buggy away and resumed his systematic hunt across the grocery store for all the items on his wife’s list.

I wanted to feel a little disappointed in myself for frightening the poor boy, but in the end I realized I didn’t actually care that much. He was adorably good looking, and very obviously straight… and married, so it’s not like I had blown an opportunity or anything. At least I gave myself a chuckle out of the experience.

As I started to pull my cart away, I hesitated. Eyeing the supple, juicy, round melons, I decided that a little summertime cantaloupe sounded refreshing, so I grabbed a nice one and tossed it in my cart.

Throughout the rest of my trip up and down the aisles, grabbing all the supplies I’d need for the coming week, my mind began to wander. I fantasized about my innocent young husband; what he looked like under that tight tee; what it would feel like to lay nude with him in a hammock, having him feed me dripping, succulent, crescents of freshly sliced cantaloupe while we petted and