This miracle pie, this delicious mish-mash of secret sugar, this bundle of baked pleasure, good enough to make you wish you weren't born yet... The girls were chirping about this pecan pie as if it was a web woven by miracle spiders to catch your palate and feast on your salivating remains.
"What's with that pie?"
"I know!"
"I had three pieces at my house the other day...gone."
"Gone?"
"All gone."
The brunette licked her lips, straining to taste any of the pecan filling that might remain.
"There is something seriously fucked about this pie."
I pictured the quartet lying in a burned-out basement, windows shattered, a mouldy mattress lying on the bare concrete floor, Velvet Underground playing on an old mono turntable, and the four girls huddled around a brown bag.
"Hurry up!"
"Chill out!"
Out comes the round heaven dream, the epitome of bacchanalian sugar sex magick.
Within minutes, all four horsewomen are lying on their backs, lips painted brown with sweet pecan memory.(1998)
