strange days: February 2007 Archives

noone's talking about sex, and someone definitely should, like totally.

what turns you on? what are your darkest fantasies? whose body do you dig the most? do you have a hard time stop staring at the breasts of your to-be boss during a two hour interview? do you find yourself focusing on your colleague's soft hand gestures to see if he's gay or not? do you masturbate after horror flicks? do you google for new positions, or the right way to do the old ones? do you stare at your tits in the mirror sideways? do you fake it? do you ever feel like it in the morning? do you rate strangers in an elevator between 0 being you won't for a hundred grand and 10 being you'll give up on your new shoes if that's what it takes to be with him? what rocks your boat? friends' wives? cooking? candles? old men? teenagers? your ex? her body throbbing when she comes? his face when he's under you? her new boyfriend? what? what?

fine. don't tell me. i'll tell you mine: solitude. loneliness. pain. anger. distress, be it financial, be it emotional, be it real, be it self-inflicted. destructing thoughts. suicidal dreams. loud music in an empty living room. an empty glass of scotch on a sunday evening. telemarketer's taped voice on the answering machine. erotic, isn't it?

noone's talkin about sex, and it bugs the hell out of me. what's wrong with you people? did i miss a memo or something? did the monks win the war? did everybody.... unless, well. unless you're all just like me. lonely and horny. aren't you? don't you feel lonely when she's on top? when you're coming? isn't climax the loneliest moment of everyone's life? isn't it the most liberating, most content moment of your day, or night? doesn't your partner only carry you so far? don't you lose it half way? don't you take over? don't you forget about him - and everything else for that matter - once you get close? don't you? don't you?

sex is a solitary practice of freedom; intimacy is its means, one of many of course, and someone should talk about it, like totally, like now.

or rather strange lot, we have become.

if there are a thousand ways to skin a cat i'm sure there must be more than one way to peel an orange. but then you see these oranges are not like those, the ones mom used to peel off and delicately place in the middle of the coffee table on the blue tray with yellow sunflowers. they don't fill the air with citrus odor, they don't ooze out their fresh juice all over you, they're tamed, calmed down, mild and mellow. they're just soft, smooth and gentle, just like fat free pasteurized milk. i made a circle on top and then scarred the sides.

i was staring at the woman on the sofa as i peeled them off. peaceful she glowed with her eyes closed, safe she felt under the comforter. her blond hair spread all over the cushions, innocent she looked in my shameless eyes. why is she here, i shall ask myself. a rush of vanity, deconstructing doubts.

she cooks chicken soup. she laughs at my jokes. she believes in family, in home and in vitamins. she doesn't enjoy sarcasm, at least not as much as i do. she acupunctures. she taught me sudoku. she dislikes horror movies. she likes puzzles, dido and deal or no deal. but more than anything, she cares genuinely, with all of her being. i reached for a kleenex to wipe the pulp off my hands, as she turned around and i faced her bare back.

there's an eminent disconnect between me and her. i shall revise that: it's people, not her. there's a wide open gap, as deep as the skies in a starless night. i'm not a believer and i have no faith, but somehow i believe in solitude, that people are lonely, me and you and her. they never connect. i never connect. i picked up another orange, i didn't feel like it, but i peeled it off, and the next one too, this time with my nails.

or strange lot rather, we have become.

i highly doubt if by 1984 john m. fielding had any idea that the very beach bench he got his name engraved on will be sat on and laid upon by persian immigrants who would sip on their lattes and munch on their butter croissants and spinach piroshkis on a sunny sunday morning in february of two thousand and seven. he would also have had no way to find out that the croissants and the lattes were exachanged for a few us dollars at a scandinavian bakery also run by persian immigrants invading the local markets. not that he would have or could have done anything about it, but he might have liked to know before making his donation to his city.

we discussed the major differences between piroshkis, donuts and bagels as the pacific was evaporating under the eighty degree beams of sunlight in front of our eyes. we then debated the war, would you go back if it happened? we talked about crossing thirty. i said growing up was a marketing campaign as n and l and sh had been talkin about it. i then contradicted myself: it does exist, you do grow up, statistically speaking in a ninety-five percent confidence interval between twenty six and twenty eight.

growing up is easy: smile. growing up is smiling when you have absolutely no reason whatsoever to do so. growing up is smiling regardless. it's smiling when you can afford a new car, and when your checking account hits absolute zero. it's smiling when she's crying, when shit happens, when she calls you names because you just broke her heart. it's smiling when you just can't, when you don't know, when you're screwed. it's smiling when you feel helpless, trapped and above all indifferent. that's all there is to it. grown-ups smile for a living. they cry and laugh and scream and shriek and get angry inside, but the smile prevails when it comes to surface.

we remained silent for a good while, maybe fifteen minutes, maybe more. we kept smiling, he was thinking about his job, and maybe getting a new dog, she was thinking about him, i was thinking about money, about her and about my trip, she was thinking about her taxes, her parents and the grains of sand on the walkway in front of us.

and suddenly we left in quiet, smiling for good.