Maybe it's the tiny, sprouting hairs. Maybe it's the pink coloring. And maybe, just maybe, it's my deviant, twisted mind. But goddamn, if this Raspberry Shortcake isn't the most vaginal dessert I've ever seen, I don't know what is. You could fashion a menu consisting entirely of Labia-pops, Clitoral Sorbet, and Cooter Pies and I think it would make me blush less than this.

Somewhere, Georgia O'Keefe is cursing herself for not becoming a pastry chef. Unless she's dead. Then she's rolling over in her grave. Unless, she was cremated. Then she's praying the wind picks up so she can get in someone's eyes and make them all pissed off. Vengeful, vengeful artists.

But this thing...it's just so...a vagina. A so obviously delicious one at that. Like, freshly shaven and right out of the shower. It's almost beckoning. If it had lips (ones that spoke) they'd be blowing me kisses and whispering my name.

(I can imagine the chef laying down the first layer of cake all innocently. "Well, nothing suggestive about that. That's just shortcake." Then he puts down the cream. Then the raspberries. Then the second layer of cake. Then he takes a step back, sort of cocks his head to the side and lets out a slight giggle. Then the sous chef comes in, sees the pastry chef laughing, and he starts laughing. Then the maitre' d stumbles in and sees the other two laughing. Eventually, it's the three of them, all cackling like hyenas, making period-related jokes as they pour oodles of raspberry coulis all over their creation.)

In short, order this. It's scrumptious, reminiscent of delectable lady parts, and ripe for parody. It's the dessert that truly keeps on giving. And if you're at all interested, yes, the dessert is served cold. Just like a woman.