A friend went out to a fancy French restaurant looking for
an amazing meal, spare no expense.
“Please won’t you prepare your very best dishes for me,
chef’s choice.”
Course following course. Every one, a triumph. Each, better
than the other.
Finally, the dessert course . . .
The maître de arrives tableside with a cart on top of which
is a pyramid of the most exquisite, colorful ripe Peaches — Texas Peaches — precisely placed on a
gold tray surrounded by pink roses. He is accompanied by a gorgeous young lady
wearing a peachy pink outfit with a short skirt with lots of ruffles and
petticoats. The maître de selects the prime most Peach, inserts a fork into it
and proceeds to peel the juicy fruit in one deft movement. He then smugly
presents the peach to the diner.
On cue the young lady lifts her skirt. It is clear to be
seen that she is not wearing any panties. And, as smooth as a peach herself.
The maître de gently places the juicy peach between her soft ingénue thighs,
whereupon she proceeds to wriggle and writhe, squirming and gyrating around the
peach between her legs.
After quite a long time she stops and the maître de lifts up
the peach and exclaims, “Voilà, monsieur, Pêche Poussé!”
Shocked, the man blurts out, “No way am I going to eat THAT Peach!”
The maître de diplomatically rejoins, “Ah, monsieur, the PEACH . . . you do not eat.”
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