In this case it was apple. My girlfriend Kylie brought it over. She said she made six of them for Thanksgiving, two for her family, two for the homeless, one for the neighbors, and she had to save this one for us, us being me, my mom and dad, and my little brother Clay. It was really good, maybe the best I’ve ever tasted.

“Not like your mom’s,” Dad told me later that evening. Kylie had gone home and Clay and Mom were downstairs watching something on TV.

“I thought it was perfect,” I said.

Dad rocked his hands like so-so waves. “I like a flakier crust,” he said.

“I like something more substantial,” I said.

“Like shoe leather?” Dad teased. I assumed he was teasing. But then he said, “Basically, when it comes to taste you’re a philistine.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your friend Kylie, for example. She’s not exactly substantial in the breast department.”

I thought Kylie’s breasts were pure perfection, but what was I supposed to say?

Dad said, “Her filling was okay, though. Maybe not the best I’ve ever tasted.”

It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about Kylie’s pie. Her apple pie. Almost certainly. But I couldn’t help having an image of Dad eating Kylie out. The amazing thing was the mental image didn’t disgust me. Because surely if Dad ever tasted Kylie’s pussy he’d recognize it as pure perfection. He’d never want anything else. I pretended to be riled, though. I jerked to my feet and stormed out of the house, not even bothering with a coat. I sprinted the six blocks to Kylie’s house, barely feeling the zero degree windchill.

Kylie welcomed me in. She welcomed me up to her room. She welcomed my tongue into her cunt.

“Oh Gosh, Brad, you make me come so good,” she whispered, a minute or so after her orgasm.

In reply I buried my face back between her thighs, needing yet another helping.