Sunday, June 30, 2013

My Final Word on Sex (Down, Boy!)

My Final Word on Sex (Down, Boy!)

Perhaps my least appetizing memory of sex was in an improvisation class meant to help us free our minds to become better playwrights. We were given some simple situation with which to make free associations, and the key instruction of improv…go along with whatever your partner says or does. A geeky boy, whose name I didn’t know, interpreted this as permission to fly across the room and grab my then younger and perkier breasts; stand on his toes and shove his tongue down my throat. I pried him off and quit the group, but this is what often happens, at least metaphorically, whenever women try to talk about sex.  

Now, I’m a bit old fashioned. I believe that sex is to be performed by two consenting adults of any gender who want to get naked and jump into the fray. I don’t really believe in talking, I believe in doing…just not with random men in a writing class…or any educational setting. I have received two different phone calls from two different Facebook men and did not realize until later that they were looking for that legendary hot phone sex I had heard of, but never learned. I just cheefully talked about the weather and what I had had for dinner. WELL, I DIDN’T KNOW!  I’M AN OLD LADY!

We didn’t need to talk about it back in the nineteen seventies Free Love days. The most verbal we ever got was reading the pages of The Joy of Sex old loud to my husband while trying to place our knees and chins in the correct places that the flabby Hippie Couple in the drawings were demonstrating. This usually ended in a hysterically funny tangled crash to the floor followed by just DOING IT the same old way but on the carpet instead of the bed.

Although I can write a fairly hot seduction scene in a play (Talking God) and give dirty details (Amour Americain), I really never contemplated talking about any of my own excited protrusions or tunnels. If I attempt it, I sound like Lilith Sternin of “Frasier” with her emotionless, flat voice going “Oh do it, Baby. Do it hard.”

Alas, no. Despite my age and illness and unattractive body, I still believe it is something to do in reality, not on the phone or on Skype. I’ve heard it can be done so well in chat rooms that people pay, and you’d think as I playwright, I would be interested. God knows, I could create a false identity for myself, become Bambi the yodeling seventeen year old shepherdess, but you can already see I simply can’t take it as seriously as the chat room experts need.

And what I miss most about men is laying my cheek on a strong, denim covered shoulder, while we talk about our day. I miss their scent and their laughter. I miss having our fingers entwined as we walk silently breathing in Autumn air. Those little closed mouth kisses hello and goodbye, which was my last physical contact with a man and I’m smiling to remember it. So, I’m going to retire from all that and formally announce that the VIP box is closed. My last experiences with actual sex got worse and worse until that last pathetic, unexcited, inept tussle with the wrong man. But my final memory of men will be a sweet, friendly kiss on the lips with the right one.  What more could a girl want?

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Sonnet 96 – Elvira Is Slowly Leaving the Building

Sonnet 96 – Elvira Is Slowly Leaving the Building

She moves like Quasimodo, not Jagger
Her hair is white, her skin sags and wrinkles
To walk with cane has taken her swagger
And her day is ruled by poops and tinkles
Reading great books was not her specialty
Nor did she paint or sing or play guitar
She toyed with dialogue’s simplicity
She was an able worker, not a star
In short, she was simply not good enough
For a well read, talented, handsome man
Trust me, Angel, admitting it is tough
But I have to understand why you ran
May you find a Queen worthy of your throne
And makes both your brain and manhood moan.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Sonnet 95 -- Footnote in Some History Archival

Sonnet 95 -- Footnote in Some History Archival

Real life is about cleaning the damned house
Cooking meals and washing the damned dishes
I have no children or beloved spouse
It grows too late to make three more wishes
I am not smart enough for you, my love
I do not possess your dazzling talents
But you aren’t good enough for me, sweet Dove
You would never keep it inside your pants
So here I stand with dishes needing washed
Papers to shred…a muffler to replace
Worried about daring a rhyme of “frost”
While the sags and wrinkles demean my face
All we can hope for is raw survival
Footnotes in some history archival

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Sonnet 94 - Too Much Time On My Hands

Sonnet 94 - Too Much Time On My Hands
I guess I'm a bitchy grumpy old broad
Too damn comfortable for my own good
I’m sick and dull and obviously flawed
I could have I would have done what I should
And as you fade away, your beauty grows
With dark eyes shining through papyrus skin
No more do I know what is truth or pose
You won’t get a chance to make it again
I don’t have the strength to get to the top
My body’s too old to capture a man
My theatrical life doth went kerflop
Fantasizing dumped my life in the can
But still, I don’t mourn my life or my fate
It’s just that we learned our lessons too late

Monday, June 17, 2013

Sonnet 93 -- I'm getting too old for this sh*t

Sonnet 93 -- I'm getting too old for this sh*t

With the damned whole world falling to pieces
And our lives being sold to the Devil
The whining about love never ceases
We mourn that boys no longer do revel
While we still are trying to please Mother
Business picks our pockets clean and laughs
Yet we weep that he left for another
Dying our hair red or slimming our calves
Daydreams of vampires sucking our necks
Or men wishing to buy the youngest doll
I fear that men are addicted to sex
And all distracted by trips to the Mall
History cries to cease solipsism
So dazzled by society’s prism

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Sonnet 92 -- Learning What the Word Means

Sonnet 92 -- Learning What the Word Means

The years we spent at playing Love are lost
One must not try to bend it to our need
Demands and expectations raise the cost
And happiness is lost in selfish greed
We do not see the person, just the dream
A fantasy to rescue us from fears
And fill the hours sometimes with a scream
Addicting us to cheap dramatic tears
How much sweeter it is to simply care
With nothing of ourselves set on the line
The veil of selfish needs no longer there
We let them go to seek their needed sign
And stop the insanity called “In Love”
And offer simple care to rise above.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Sonnet 91 Reality Is Not A Theater Script

Reality is not a theater script
When fear and terror stills your fingertips
And a breathing human is torn and ripped
There’s too much stress as the hero lingers
I want it over and the curtain dropped
At last to get the car from the garage
And think about getting the bathroom mopped
Wash my hair and give the cell phone a charge
Reality kills my rescue daydream
I’ve played this scene a dozen times before
A man who needs a psychiatric team
Will reward generosity with war
No more of men other women don’t want
No more of being a pathetic c#nt