Sunday, September 17, 2006

Idiot's Guide to Sex Ed?

Recently, I have found that some of the people who call me friend are in various throes of lovelorn-ness. One in particular was at Deacon’s apartment when I arrived. I had gone there needing to be caught up in eddies of gaiety and tipsy camaraderie. But, guess what? No gaiety. No tipsy. No camaraderie.

Said friend had come to Deacon’s place because he was hiding from his girlfriend. He was not happy, he said. Had not been for some time, he said. Wasn’t even physically attracted to her anymore, he said. Got more enjoyment wanking than having her lips…well, you know the rest. He was glum. He was in a drinking-many-beers-and-I-won’t-stop-soon state of mind. He wondered how something so good had become so…not good.

I thought that maybe being arrogantly pedantic would bring a smile. I wanted to spout Dante. I wanted to say impeccably: essum maggior dolore, che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria. Of course I would not say it with an italics accent. But since I do not speak Italian, then I would settle for: There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy. (Again the italics would be missing from my voice).

Maybe I should stop thinking.

That was the plan. However, I remembered that I am not, nor have any reason to believe that I will in the near future, be any sort of solace in the bruised heart department. No expertise there. No disciples can come to my temple and walk away satisfied that I made Pythia proud and that they got their money’s worth. Hell, I still believe in the romance and magic nonsense that causes my friends to choke with laughter and belittle what they call my Pollyanna tendencies. So I turned to my friend and said…nothing. Words failed me. His eyes were so woeful. He was staring at the floor.

WOEFUL EYES: It was her birthday recently. Know what I got her for a present?
ALICE: Flowers? An intimate dinner for two? A ride through Central Park where you spent time not looking at the city, but rather breathlessly exchanging murmurs of love and kisses?

He kept on shaking his head no.

ALICE *getting desperate*: A blouse? A ring? A wok? A pneumatic drill?

Woeful Eyes shook his head. No. No. No. No. He looked up at me, prepared to confess.

WOEFUL EYES: A vibrator.
ALICE: A vibrator?
WOEFUL EYES: Yes. What does that tell you?

I was a bit stunned but, hey, while it would not be on my wish list, it was the thought that counted. No?

ALICE *trying to lighten the mood*: It tells me that (here I quote Sherlock Holmes, pedantically, of course) when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
DEACON *shouting from the other room*: It tells me that she ain’t getting anymore! From you anyway.
ALICE: Yeah. That’s what I meant.

Another friend had joined our little group and was adding his two cents. He talked about being with a girl he liked and was lucky enough to find himself making out with her when they were both tipsy. He wanted more, more, more. She…did not. So, he says, they spent several hours kissing and grinding. I love this bragging friend!

ALICE: Several hours? Kissing AND grinding?
BRAGGING FRIEND: Yep! Let me tell you that after I finally…well, you know what … my bits were dried up to raisins.

So this is what love was reduced to for one small moment in my little world. Vibrators and raisins. No romance there. No magic, either. Nuh uh.