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22 December 2023
YOU CAN'T MAKE LOVE ALL BY YOURSELF
How can you say something like that and make it out to be a universal fact? I've made some damn fascinating experiences in that field, and I swear on the Holy Bible that you can definitely make love all by yourself.
Of course I like to have a man around to do the honors. Naturally. Why use my own hands when someone else can do it, leaving me free to clench the pillow or the sink or whatever the props are. Ideally, I wouldn't even need to know how to help myself out in the first place. Right?
And yes, there are plenty of eager men out there. Unfortunately, eagerness (although a sweet trait) is relatively useless on its own. I don't ever mean to blame them. All I'm saying is: if you needed to have a liver transplant, wouldn't you want an expert? And why should you only settle for experts when it comes to liver transplants? If I'm going to pay a plumber, I want someone who can work wonders with a clogged drainpipe. Same with other things.
Therefore, I ignore most of those "other fish in the sea" that stupid friends are always telling me about. Instead, I fall desperately in love with taxi drivers. People that are a joke; unreal and always a safe bet to dream about. I ask them for directions, and when they fix their confident eyes on me and say, "Right down there, and take a left," I burn it into my memory, and use it accordingly later that night. That way neither he nor I will ever be disappointed. No feelings are ever hurt, no eyes need to be rolled, no effort, no tears.
Sometimes, there'll be a traffic jam, where you inch along highways in an ocean of cars and trucks, the heat and the exhaust fumes killing all life outside your air-conditioned bubble.
Well, I say make use of the situation.
SMELLING LIKE A BREWERY
And then there's alcohol, of course, which changes everything. After two drinks I'm usually finding someone or other highly irresistible. It doesn't take long for him to realize that he's suddenly become 45% more handsome than he usually is. Everything goes from there.
"Hey."
"Hey,..."
A smile crawls across my face, soaked in the very stuff horniness is made of.
"Have we met before?"
“Does it matter?”
Mutual laughter.
"No. I'd be lying if I said it did."
Silence.
"Yeah, I was just saying to my friend that you have the most amazing eyes."
A giggle drops from my lips. I'm up to drink number six: "I've got more than just great eyes, honey."
The more we drink, the more our dialogue suffers. By the end of the night, what we say is so embarrassing that it would make any sober person spontaneously combust.
"What's your name?"
"Beatrice."
"I'm Marvin."
I wonder whether his real name is Marvin, or whether he's faking his name like I am; but I can't wonder about this for much longer, because the palm of his hand is already enjoying my thigh. Tilting my head, and smiling discreetly into his face, I now wonder why it feels so good for him to be doing that.
Memory fades in and out. My dress inches up to my waist. Our dialogue becomes silly and sparse-- getting there. The bar is obnoxious, but of course at that moment in time, I'm thrilled that we are being so careless and obvious in a public space. I excuse myself and announce in an inappropriately loud voice that I need to powder my nose. Except, I don't say, "powder my nose." I say, "piss like a race-horse."
In the bathroom I stare into the mirror for a mysteriously long time. Then Marvin's face appears behind mine.
Even in my inebriated state, I lock the bathroom stall.
The next morning, I'm lying on my kitchen floor. Lord knows what happened to Marvin.
We're done being “Marvin” and “Beatrice” for a while. Until next time. Only, next time it won't be “Beatrice”-- it'll probably be something like “Louise”, or maybe something more exotic like “Savannah”.
SHUDDER AT THE THOUGHT
After that phase, there'll be a phase where the whole idea of abstinence in any way, shape, or form seems the righteous pass to follow. Usually because the bar from the previous night was ruthlessly nauseating-- as was Marvin (from a sober point of view) and the bathroom stall. I decide over a protein drink that it's over-- no more sex until I'm married. And no more masturbating either. The mere thought of it makes my stomach turn; like thinking of stale meat while recovering from food poisoning.
But even then-- how long can it last? The whole idea is like the New Year’s resolution to lose weight. You run on the treadmill a few times, eat a few carrots, and then you'll come across the perfect reason why not to do it anymore. And the same with other things.
It never takes longer than eight days before my purity begins to waver. Jesus, can something that good ever be truly horrifying? Yes. But certainly also no. In the end I decide not to think about it any longer, and let my hand slide under the cover with malice aforethought. It really is annoying-- that man-made, weird conscience. When I wash my hands, I try to settle on a way of phrasing my next confession.
"I,..."
Nothing ever comes to mind. I give up and go to bed. I dream about aliens attacking the city.
MR. MCTELL, BE MY MAN
And parallel to that there'll be the most innocent form of the whole subject: love at first sight. Romantic, spineless love will always come right after the dry period, that comes right after the bathroom stall. I'll fall in love with the grocery bagger or the local weirdo who paints atrocious paintings in his garage and has art sales on Sunday afternoons. I'll fall in love in such a way that I'll blush within a mile of the particular victim. I'll begin to avoid them; sometimes I'll be quite rude, brushing past him with a muffled greeting, only to run home, cursing in frustration my weird battle-plan. What was I trying to achieve anyway? Where'd I think I was going? Why couldn't I control the fluids in my body? Why couldn't I flirt with him like I do with all the Marvins of the universe?
But that's all part of romance. You can't really have it without that unique kind of suffering that we run into on a regular basis. We like having a friend at our side, who has to sit through the whole ordeal in utter boredom.
Then, I'll run into him. Mostly at places like the laundry or the newspaper stand.
"Hi. How are you?"
"Good."
Smiling, and then: "And you?"
"Fine."
More smiling. Thoughts at this point are non-existent. Everything is on fire and drastically overrated.
"Well, see ya around."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye."
And there's the end of that romance. It's amazing how minimalistic a love affair can really be. In a way these are the harmless kind, nothing ever became real enough to leave scars. In another sense they are the worst, because now you can forever regret-- to think, to imagine what might have been if you would have pretended to loose one of your quarters and asked him for an extra one.
SEE YA AFTER SUPPER
Do these stories have a happy end? Well, for one thing, stories don't have an end to begin with. Nothing ever ends. No story concludes with an orchestral bang and the curtains dropping to the stage floor. Life goes on. Behind the curtain, the actors will burp and scratch their noses, wipe the sweat from their foreheads, wink at another actor, laugh at a joke, catch their breath, and then straighten up as the curtain opens again for their bow. There they stand in a row. Immaculate.
Why should life for the audience be any different? Every one of those spectator's, with the ticket stub still in their hands, will go home and continue their own performance.
And "these kind of stories" do the same thing. They go on into eternity. Some people's love stories are like those romance novels that cost about 30-cents. Others have romances like the pornography videos that sit on shelves behind red curtains. With some, it's Greek tragedies; with others it's the Brady Bunch. Some seem to live in the pages of a comic book, some in the pages of a cookbook, a science book, or a science fiction book.
Personally, my love life is a cross between a lot of things: a typing manual from the ‘60s (something with a subtitle like: "Welcome to a more interesting life!"), a wildlife show, and one of those religious TV shows where people have ecstatic breakthroughs-- where the blind learn to see, and the cripples throw away their crutches.
But the dominant ingredient has always been and always will be The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. You see, I never know when I'll come face to face with a talking walrus, a mad hatter, or someone lamenting that once he "was a real turtle." I never know when I'll go to sleep with a Cheshire cat, and wake up with just a grin beside me. I am cursed to be with the lunatics. Thank God. Because God knows, I wouldn't know what to do with a goddamn Prince Charming.
How can you say something like that and make it out to be a universal fact? I've made some damn fascinating experiences in that field, and I swear on the Holy Bible that you can definitely make love all by yourself.
Of course I like to have a man around to do the honors. Naturally. Why use my own hands when someone else can do it, leaving me free to clench the pillow or the sink or whatever the props are. Ideally, I wouldn't even need to know how to help myself out in the first place. Right?
And yes, there are plenty of eager men out there. Unfortunately, eagerness (although a sweet trait) is relatively useless on its own. I don't ever mean to blame them. All I'm saying is: if you needed to have a liver transplant, wouldn't you want an expert? And why should you only settle for experts when it comes to liver transplants? If I'm going to pay a plumber, I want someone who can work wonders with a clogged drainpipe. Same with other things.
Therefore, I ignore most of those "other fish in the sea" that stupid friends are always telling me about. Instead, I fall desperately in love with taxi drivers. People that are a joke; unreal and always a safe bet to dream about. I ask them for directions, and when they fix their confident eyes on me and say, "Right down there, and take a left," I burn it into my memory, and use it accordingly later that night. That way neither he nor I will ever be disappointed. No feelings are ever hurt, no eyes need to be rolled, no effort, no tears.
Sometimes, there'll be a traffic jam, where you inch along highways in an ocean of cars and trucks, the heat and the exhaust fumes killing all life outside your air-conditioned bubble.
Well, I say make use of the situation.
SMELLING LIKE A BREWERY
And then there's alcohol, of course, which changes everything. After two drinks I'm usually finding someone or other highly irresistible. It doesn't take long for him to realize that he's suddenly become 45% more handsome than he usually is. Everything goes from there.
"Hey."
"Hey,..."
A smile crawls across my face, soaked in the very stuff horniness is made of.
"Have we met before?"
“Does it matter?”
Mutual laughter.
"No. I'd be lying if I said it did."
Silence.
"Yeah, I was just saying to my friend that you have the most amazing eyes."
A giggle drops from my lips. I'm up to drink number six: "I've got more than just great eyes, honey."
The more we drink, the more our dialogue suffers. By the end of the night, what we say is so embarrassing that it would make any sober person spontaneously combust.
"What's your name?"
"Beatrice."
"I'm Marvin."
I wonder whether his real name is Marvin, or whether he's faking his name like I am; but I can't wonder about this for much longer, because the palm of his hand is already enjoying my thigh. Tilting my head, and smiling discreetly into his face, I now wonder why it feels so good for him to be doing that.
Memory fades in and out. My dress inches up to my waist. Our dialogue becomes silly and sparse-- getting there. The bar is obnoxious, but of course at that moment in time, I'm thrilled that we are being so careless and obvious in a public space. I excuse myself and announce in an inappropriately loud voice that I need to powder my nose. Except, I don't say, "powder my nose." I say, "piss like a race-horse."
In the bathroom I stare into the mirror for a mysteriously long time. Then Marvin's face appears behind mine.
Even in my inebriated state, I lock the bathroom stall.
The next morning, I'm lying on my kitchen floor. Lord knows what happened to Marvin.
We're done being “Marvin” and “Beatrice” for a while. Until next time. Only, next time it won't be “Beatrice”-- it'll probably be something like “Louise”, or maybe something more exotic like “Savannah”.
SHUDDER AT THE THOUGHT
After that phase, there'll be a phase where the whole idea of abstinence in any way, shape, or form seems the righteous pass to follow. Usually because the bar from the previous night was ruthlessly nauseating-- as was Marvin (from a sober point of view) and the bathroom stall. I decide over a protein drink that it's over-- no more sex until I'm married. And no more masturbating either. The mere thought of it makes my stomach turn; like thinking of stale meat while recovering from food poisoning.
But even then-- how long can it last? The whole idea is like the New Year’s resolution to lose weight. You run on the treadmill a few times, eat a few carrots, and then you'll come across the perfect reason why not to do it anymore. And the same with other things.
It never takes longer than eight days before my purity begins to waver. Jesus, can something that good ever be truly horrifying? Yes. But certainly also no. In the end I decide not to think about it any longer, and let my hand slide under the cover with malice aforethought. It really is annoying-- that man-made, weird conscience. When I wash my hands, I try to settle on a way of phrasing my next confession.
"I,..."
Nothing ever comes to mind. I give up and go to bed. I dream about aliens attacking the city.
MR. MCTELL, BE MY MAN
And parallel to that there'll be the most innocent form of the whole subject: love at first sight. Romantic, spineless love will always come right after the dry period, that comes right after the bathroom stall. I'll fall in love with the grocery bagger or the local weirdo who paints atrocious paintings in his garage and has art sales on Sunday afternoons. I'll fall in love in such a way that I'll blush within a mile of the particular victim. I'll begin to avoid them; sometimes I'll be quite rude, brushing past him with a muffled greeting, only to run home, cursing in frustration my weird battle-plan. What was I trying to achieve anyway? Where'd I think I was going? Why couldn't I control the fluids in my body? Why couldn't I flirt with him like I do with all the Marvins of the universe?
But that's all part of romance. You can't really have it without that unique kind of suffering that we run into on a regular basis. We like having a friend at our side, who has to sit through the whole ordeal in utter boredom.
Then, I'll run into him. Mostly at places like the laundry or the newspaper stand.
"Hi. How are you?"
"Good."
Smiling, and then: "And you?"
"Fine."
More smiling. Thoughts at this point are non-existent. Everything is on fire and drastically overrated.
"Well, see ya around."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye."
And there's the end of that romance. It's amazing how minimalistic a love affair can really be. In a way these are the harmless kind, nothing ever became real enough to leave scars. In another sense they are the worst, because now you can forever regret-- to think, to imagine what might have been if you would have pretended to loose one of your quarters and asked him for an extra one.
SEE YA AFTER SUPPER
Do these stories have a happy end? Well, for one thing, stories don't have an end to begin with. Nothing ever ends. No story concludes with an orchestral bang and the curtains dropping to the stage floor. Life goes on. Behind the curtain, the actors will burp and scratch their noses, wipe the sweat from their foreheads, wink at another actor, laugh at a joke, catch their breath, and then straighten up as the curtain opens again for their bow. There they stand in a row. Immaculate.
Why should life for the audience be any different? Every one of those spectator's, with the ticket stub still in their hands, will go home and continue their own performance.
And "these kind of stories" do the same thing. They go on into eternity. Some people's love stories are like those romance novels that cost about 30-cents. Others have romances like the pornography videos that sit on shelves behind red curtains. With some, it's Greek tragedies; with others it's the Brady Bunch. Some seem to live in the pages of a comic book, some in the pages of a cookbook, a science book, or a science fiction book.
Personally, my love life is a cross between a lot of things: a typing manual from the ‘60s (something with a subtitle like: "Welcome to a more interesting life!"), a wildlife show, and one of those religious TV shows where people have ecstatic breakthroughs-- where the blind learn to see, and the cripples throw away their crutches.
But the dominant ingredient has always been and always will be The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. You see, I never know when I'll come face to face with a talking walrus, a mad hatter, or someone lamenting that once he "was a real turtle." I never know when I'll go to sleep with a Cheshire cat, and wake up with just a grin beside me. I am cursed to be with the lunatics. Thank God. Because God knows, I wouldn't know what to do with a goddamn Prince Charming.
artid
966
Old Image
5_3_mercedes.swf
issue
vol 5 - issue 03 (nov 2002)
section
pen_think