Beyond the Pale in Normal entries

Wrote some other stuff, didn’t care for it. Called one plumber and a couple of shrinks. Plumbers answer their phone. How many shrinks do you have to call to get an appointment? I don’t know, I suppose I could come up with a few punchlines, but I’m not being rhetorical or funny. Yes, I’m crazy as a bed bug or depressive like a fox, or bat shit as a bed fox, but that’s not why now, it’s more like ‘you don’t have one?’ It’s a short story and it’s been told often enough in the last few entries for a twelve-year-old Nancy Drew reader to figure out. Sorry, what Nancy has Drawn is not pertinent and impertinent, the Nancy Drew reader has read Nancy Drew. I haven’t even read the last few entries. One had something to do with ray ban aviators. I like my ray ban aviators. They rock. If I had a bomber jacket, elephant bottoms and a weave I’d be so damn ironic that the U.N. would have to declare that Americans do understand irony. Um, the U.N. would be playing irony step cousin; snarky. Still, score one for the home team.

One of my morning calls was very important. My shower is fucked and not your standard missionary position oh my god oh my god that’s it oh baby oh baby yes fucked. I had it last sojourn into carnality duct taped and krazy glued and that held together far beyond expectations (which would make for a good slogan as long as no one mentions how low the expectations were). Now that it’s comfortably with its showery sexuality it has fucked itself beyond all reason and practicality (yes, there is a practical side to sexual expression, I’m sure someone can explain it in great detail. Send me the link wouldja?). And sure, there’s another shower in this house (built three years back by a great handyman who was cheap on account of being under the counter, in a tax way, though, he did fix the disposal once and that was under the counter). Back when there were six people living in this house there was only one and a quarter bathrooms. The quarter was closet sized and had a sink in it built for a much larger bathroom; a full-grown adult needed a strategy to use it, and, unless you were under ninety pounds there was no way of standing and peeing, well, not in the toilet, if you left the door open it would be easy to pee in the sink. The entire breakfast nook was made into a handicap bathroom three years ago. Had there been a vote in the sixties when six people shared the house, it would have been five to one on breakfasting in the driveway but having a second bathroom.

Shit, that paragraph got away from me, trying not to take it personally. So, yeah, plumber is going to come out, show a little butt crack, hem and haw, say some plumber shit, overcharge but doing it in the ballpark, and, god willing and the creek don’t flush, I will once again be the showered gentry and the shower will return to a life of celibacy. Oh, shit, that other stuff I wrote was about sex, though not as direct as one might hope, I mean actual sex, not some pun on being fucked. I might tack it on at the bottom. One day I’ll stop calling that shot. On that day someone will note ‘I don’t get it. Seems like two completely different … things.’

In the good or bad old days of OD I wrote a lot of fiction, even wrote a novel in daily increments. There wasn’t any outline, proof reading, editing, that was a large part of its charm. Charm doesn’t really replace readability no matter the width and breadth of alleged charm. Um, it was actually readable, just not, in the traditional sense, good. Oh, yeah, tying shit together. Throughout the course of said novel on the hoof, I received well over twenty notes offering condolences or congratulations on things that happened to obviously fictional characters (I guess, to be fair, it was written in the first person, so, sure, a guy in Vegas rusted through his clothes in front of me on a crowded sidewalk). And over five calling me a liar. It’s not a goofy guess that if I stop saying I’m pasting an orphan from days ago at the bottom that I’ll get condolences for being a liar. Ok, so here goes;

My sex life; my business. Sure, in these not so hallowed digital halls I’ve typed a Nashesque like entry or two, those were about things that happened, were over, dead and buried. I don’t talk about the present because I don’t and because it’d really disappoint the GF. I don’t lie to her. Heh, I don’t lie to anyone, a good lie is way to complicated for me to remember and a bad lie is useless. So why even bring it up? I mean it’s hardly titillating. The students are back and there are air quality warnings for hormones. Heh, ok, I do lie but only to be funny. I’m hitting an age where I’m closer to being asexual than I am to my prime. Sure, that might never happen, I could get wood into my nineties or get hit by a bus with wood. Neither one sounds desirable or likely. So, eliminating those from the mix, one day my dick will be the least interesting organ on or in my body, to me at least.

Five years ago and some change I saw the GF for the first time in four decades and we reunited. I was still married at the time, 2500 miles and a fuck you between my wife and me, but, you know, married. So, you know, there was a lot of pillow and base running, except to home. She asked me how many women I had slept with. Normally that’s an insulting question, but, her eyes were big and round and very close and she’s adorable. I don’t have a good answer for that. It’s something like Nine that really mattered and a bunch that didn’t. Hmmm, the bunch that didn’t matter were like mutual in the not mattering. She wanted an answer, so I made one up and told her I was making it up. I don’t think she’s the only person on the planet who thinks everyone keeps score. And, you know, I love her, so it was adorable. I low balled on the made up. Probably. I honestly don’t know.

I came of age after the sexual revolution. So, I don’t know how normative my experience is. I came tell you I have never gone on many dates. That’s not how I did things. As a young buck, which is pretty much the seventies, I shyly say something like ‘Ya wanna?’ and I’d get a yes or a no. Dinner and a movie was either for some other time or with a friend. I still don’t know how to ask for a date with romantic intent. Huh, boy that sentence was coyer than I had intended. I don’t know how to get laid using the scenic route. I’m on the very dark end of my fifties, it makes the urgency of getting laid less … urgent. And more sophisticated (that’s funny. Laugh. Laugh damn your eyes!) With both my marriages there was no first date, but, with both we spent the evening in bed when we first met. If marriage had been dependent on dinner and a movie Everyone could have been saved a lot of trouble. Ok, so not everyone, but certainly me. I have no idea what current courtship rituals are. I do not have my finger on the pulse (sure, darling, that’s where your pulse is. Seriously.) of modern culture. It’s from lack of trying, though, I might be any closer if I tried harder, or, you know, present and future tense, try. Don’t need to, unless GF dies or wizens up.

So, where’s the present-day sex tale? Probably up your ass, I wouldn’t know, no offense.