Mostly in the Afternoon

was going to make fun of how, in Nicholas Kristof’s serious, detailed, etccolumn on phthalates (a dangerous chemical in many plastics (here’s the link) http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/16/opinion/16kristof.html?_r=1 he uses the phrase “less penile volume” when he means pencil dick. But I don’t want to write about that now. Thinking about penises depresses me.

It’s a lovely summer night and the only penis in my vicinity is on a cantankerous cat with no balls. The boyfriend and I are on hiatus (not to be confused with Hyannis Port, where the Kennedys have roughhouse sex.). Why? Don’t ask. Oh, sorry, you didn’t. I just

am not supposed to talk about certain things although I could if I wanted, or could dance around nicely, but I’m tired of it all, the detours and byways, the heart-work, the way my life is in bits—.

Some of the bits are quite lovely, granted. Cats, Charles (who has mind-melded with Mouchette), my family, my friends, the park, poetry, picnics, penises—

No, no more penises. Not for me, not for anyone. I decree it, and Kristof confirms it. Boys will grow up with little ones, due to the plastic in every woman’s system, so don’t let your sons get a look at your aging whopper, or even your slightly-above-average-and-very-attractive whanger, and don’t get your daughters’ hopes up.

Don’t let her read those books where the stranger with the dark burning eyes, with whom the heroine has been hesitantly flirting, breaks through the door to her bedroom, shouting, “I must have you, my tempestuous beauty! I can wait no longer!” and so on more verbiage her clothes off, her body with the nice skin and big tits (note to self: fix description), until his mighty organ stands up proud, like the tower of Babel—no, I didn’t mean that, forget that—like a mighty oak, and, obviously, she can’t fit her hand around it, but who cares about her hand, the engorged head is assailing her inner portals, her secret lips having swelled, flushed, glistened with the nectar of love, and parted from each other by the miraculous workings of the human body, opening the way to her very core…

Don’t laugh. If the fantasy book doesn’t sell, romance is the next rung down. And these aren’t your grandmother’s romance novels either, unless she had a samizdat stash. To compete you need several-page-long scenes of sexual congress—no not that Congress, pay attention—and the man (or vampire, half-demon, werewolf) always wants to start with cunnilingus, for which he has such a mad craving he reminds me of my lesbian friend A. who now and then tries to seduce me.

To make it short: the lady has a swell time. And that’s fine; you want the character you’ve bought into to get properly banged, after the requisite teasers. But I don’t want to read so much slurping and sighing; it reminds of the damp tissues that pile up when I’ve had my heart broken, or, if you get those paranormals involved with their gargantuan appetites, the sopping paper towels when the toilet overflows.

What on earth was I talking about? The small dicks of the future. Well, it’s not my problem. I’ve written myself away from grief, though it lurks. Also, I notice I feel better once the shadows gather and he’s with her because he’s not thinking about me so much. He thinks about me late morning, late afternoon when the work slows—that golden time of day—and a lot on the weekends. We have a mental link. Very sweet and all but it’s a curse. He listens to Sinatra ballads every bloody Sunday, which has been proven to amplify the working of such curses. I want chocolate. And a witch. Get me a witch. One that barters for necklaces.

And somebody, please, clean up the world. Meanwhile, use glass, not plastic.

I was going to make fun of how, in Nicholas Kristof’s serious, detailed, etc, column on phthalates (a dangerous chemical in many plastics (here’s the link) he uses the phrase “less penile volume” when he means pencil dick. But I don’t want to write about that now. Thinking about penises depresses me.

It’s a lovely summer night and the only penis in my vicinity is on a cantankerous cat with no balls. The boyfriend and I are on hiatus (not to be confused with Hyannis Port, where the Kennedys have roughhouse sex.). Why? Don’t ask. Oh, sorry, you didn’t. I just

am not supposed to talk about certain things although I could if I wanted, or could dance around nicely, but I’m tired of it all, the detours and byways, the heart-work, the way my life is in bits—.

Some of the bits are quite lovely, granted. Cats, Charles (who has mind-melded with Mouchette), my family, my friends, the park, poetry, picnics, penises—

No, no more penises. Not for me, not for anyone. I decree it, and Kristof confirms it. Boys will grow up with little ones, due to the plastic in every woman’s system, so don’t let your sons get a look at your aging whopper, or even your slightly-above-average-and-very-attractive whanger, and don’t get your daughters’ hopes up.

Don’t let her read those books where the stranger with the dark burning eyes, with whom the heroine has been hesitantly flirting, breaks through the door to her bedroom, shouting, “I must have you, my tempestuous beauty! I can wait no longer!” and so on more verbiage her clothes off, her body with the nice skin and big tits (note to self: fix description), until his mighty organ stands up proud, like the tower of Babel—no, I didn’t mean that, forget that—like a mighty oak, and, obviously, she can’t fit her hand around it, but who cares about her hand, the engorged head is assailing her inner portals, her secret lips having swelled, flushed, glistened with the nectar of love, and parted from each other by the miraculous workings of the human body, opening the way to her very core…

Don’t laugh. If the fantasy book doesn’t sell, romance is the next rung down. And these aren’t your grandmother’s romance novels either, unless she had a samizdat stash. To compete you need several-page-long scenes of sexual congress—no not that Congress, pay attention—and the man (or vampire, half-demon, werewolf) always wants to start with cunnilingus, for which he has such a mad craving he reminds me of my lesbian friend A. who now and then tries to seduce me.

To make it short: the lady has a swell time. And that’s fine; you want the character you’ve bought into to get properly banged, after the requisite teasers. But I don’t want to read so much slurping and sighing; it reminds of the damp tissues that pile up when I’ve had my heart broken, or, if you get those paranormals involved with their gargantuan appetites, the sopping paper towels when the toilet overflows.

What on earth was I talking about? The small dicks of the future. Well, it’s not my problem. I’ve written myself away from grief, though it lurks. Also, I notice I feel better once the shadows gather and he’s with her because he’s not thinking about me so much. He thinks about me late morning, late afternoon when the work slows—that golden time of day—and a lot on the weekends. We have a mental link. Very sweet and all but it’s a curse. He listens to Sinatra ballads every bloody Sunday, which has been proven to amplify the working of such curses. I want chocolate. And a witch. Get me a witch. One that barters for necklaces.

And somebody, please, clean up the world. Meanwhile, use glass, not plastic.