Cockworship is for Pussies
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This is what you do.
You have your female lover-your girlfriend, your partner, your friend, it matters not-lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.
You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.
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Reading Fanny Hill Aloud in Gotham
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“This was really dirty!” exclaimed one student.
“I know!” another chimed in. “I felt naughty reading it!”
“I had no idea that people in the eighteenth century were so…” the student groped for a word. “Kinky!” she finished.
What part of “premiere work of eighteenth-century pornography” threw you off, I asked. Apparently it was the “pornography” part. They just didn’t believe me.
The text in question was, of course, John Clelend’s Fanny Hill. Published in two parts in 1739 and 1740, the book is a messy, chaotic romp in which genres are tangled as limbs; sexual metaphors run the gamut of the military, the mercantile and the scientific; and the petticoated, perfumed, periwigged characters enjoy lesbianism, voyeurism, group sex, homosexuality, and swinger parties, though not in that order and not without a host of fascinating complications.
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Return to the Valley of the Dolls
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I’ve been sick in bed (and sick out of bed too, quite a bit, actually, but I’ll forbear the bent-kneed yakking details) and so I’ve indulged in a bit of bad fiction. I reread Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls; it was as delightfully awful as I remembered it to be.
I first read the book in my impressionable late teens most likely on a beach while wearing one of those tan-thru bikinis popular in the very early 80′s. Mine had tiger stripes. It didn’t really work, then in the pre-ozone hole summer, there in the weak Vermont sun. It did, however, give me the illusion that I could get the lovely toasted marshmallow all-over tan I coveted and still be seen in public, which was really the aim, if not the achieved affect. I remember reading the book in that bikini, reading with one eye out for someone to fuck and one hand on my baby oil.
This copy, the one I devoured in two nights in my ground-glass-bone fitfulness of the past couple of nights, was given to me for my birthday two years ago from my friend Daisy Duke. It’s an original 1966 hardcover, still all dressed up in its jacket confetti-strewn with candy-colored pills. It’s tough for an insomniac such as myself to read a book that does luscious nothing in such detail as sing paeans to Seconals, but I suppose we often want what we can’t have.
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A Small Wet Goddess In Gotham
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One does not expect to glimpse a naiad on the A train, yet there she was. Just inside the door she stood, compact yet slight, jet hair cropped short in fetching brutal chunks around her face, clad in nothing but a diaphanous tunic of algae green. An incongruous sight on the MTA, this water sprite set plumb in the middle of Manhattan, but then Manhattan is an island.
I’ve seen some sundry strangeness on the subway. I’ve seen a relentless parade of beggars, peddlers and hawkers. I’ve been entertained by strolling mariachi bands, gospel singers, drummers, break-dancers, rappers, flautists, comedians and even one mime. I’ve witnessed New Yorkers riding the subway calmly, newspaper in hand, iPod buds in ears, dressed in nothing but their skivvies and shoes. I’ve witnessed couples meet, fight, make-up, make out and all but fornicate. I’ve seen New Yorkers riding the rails with a dizzying array of objects: multiple dogs, a stand-up bass, a bassoon, goldfish in bags, a book case, and rolling racks of clothes come to mind. I’ve seen clowns, cowboys, drag queens, and one person on stilts. I’ve seen celebrities, politicians, and nobodies. I just never really thought a goddess would take the A train, but I suppose even deities need to get uptown quickly.
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On the Time I Paid for Tits
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I grew up under the terrible misapprehension that I was going to look like Raquel Welch. Never mind the fact that I was blonde, boxy, muscular hippie child, resembling the fourth unknown member of Hanson; I was convinced as a little girl that I would suddenly sprout long and amber limbs.
And big boobs. I was sure I would have them.
I did not. I no longer have the physical evidence-I lost the picture after the mysterious circumstance of having shown it to a friend who was quite frankly appalled that I would thrust it under her unwilling gaze-but I used to have small, flat A-B cup breasts. I tell myself that if my breasts had grown small and peach perfect I’d never have touched them, but the truth is I probably would have, steeped as I was at the time I bought my boobs in the heady largess of stripculture.
In short, between my long-held physical expectations and the fact that I was a stripper, when July of 1992 hit, I was more than ready for manufactured, silicone-shelled, saline-filled artificial second adolescence.
What Nowherewoman?
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What if I found my nowherewoman in some utopian city, some land tethered by the slenderest ship shrouds to my urban not urbane reality?
What if I found her, my nowherewoman, my nobomummy, no longer silent & invisible, this starry-eyed celestial woman whose clit hides divine in fluffy pubic clouds Michelangelo’s God on her putti-borne litter, while I recline in Adam’s leisure and nakedness? What if I found her?
(Would I then be recreated in her fashion? Or would I just lose a rib?)
What if I found her and she placed my hands on some vinyl wallpaper while some Oscar-turning blind-bard performance broadcasted banal in the background?
What if with one awesome godhand she pinned my two human hands there, on that vinyl wall, its texture pebbled like a Gideon Bible under my flat and pressed palms, what if she held them there, and what if with the other she raked her celestial nobomummy fingers into my hair?
What if she did that? (What if she gave me words & laws, would I follow them? Would I defy them? Or would I merely make them mine own?)
What if her hands clenched grabbed whiteknuckled my hair as if it could save her sweet sweet nobomummy ass from drowning (and what if it could)?
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The Good, The Bad, and the Angry
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I have been known to flash a panty or a pussy. I’ve been guilty of my fair share of nipple slips, long before that was a term in cultural use. I have many tattoos. I’ve been paid to Jello wrestle, and I was a stripper. I have, from time to time, engaged in some brief fisticuffs. I’m not above or beyond getting into near-physical altercations with taxi drivers. I have drunk to excess and dabbled in illegal, unprescribed and pleasurable drugs.
I’ve shoplifted. My parents have caught me in bed, naked and rubbing naughty bits with another woman. I’ve fucked more men than I can recall; insert the verb “blown” and that number doubles. I swear like a longshoreman. I’ve stolen men from my girlfriends, and I’ve knowingly carried on affairs with married men. In many ways, I have been a prototypical bad girl.
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