Sexantics
On Friday at acupuncture, I thought about the phrase “sex life” for a long time. You know how if you say a word over and over again, you start wondering if you might be mistaken, maybe it’s not actually a word after all, because suddenly it sounds crazy and the letters seem to be randomly strung together? It was sort of like that with “sex life,” except the thing that seemed random was the pairing of those two words. Random and hilarious. I lay there on the table with Chinese New Age music swirling around me, giggling. Like, seriously? Sex life? Sex life?
Perhaps, I hypothesized, pairing “sex” with any other word is funny. (I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD.) I tested it out in my head:
- Sex addict
- Sex drive
- Sex worker
- Sex crime
- Sex fiend
- Sex friend
Furthermore, many interesting compound words can be formed using “sex.” Like, once upon a time at the Bar, Left Hook coined the brilliant “sexweight.” That’s a weight class, like for boxing or wrestling or life.
When I left acupuncture Sidekick had a new email for me from Lefty, and she’d done it again: “sexcamp.” You can get all gulag with that one, or take the summer camp route. Your choice. Either way, ha!
Then there’s the obvious “sexdance.” Which reminds me:
Five years ago, Mr. Pistol’s family had a German exchange student. She was blindingly blonde, pretty like a princess, and miserable, being trapped in a small town in the Deep South full of what she called “the hunting and fishing boys.” Plus, Baby Monster was a total bitch to her. Once we were down there for a visit, [Mr. Pistol should cover his ears for this] and the German girl–in between sobbing on my shoulder and teaching me curse words–enumerated the evidence that Baby Monster, a sworn virgin-till-marriage, was getting in el zone del bone with Slabby, her pink-skinned fleshy-freckly wrestler boyfriend. (Dude was DEFINITELY not a sexweight.)
“Slabby touch her all the time,” she said. “You see them.”
I had. By “touch” she meant “grope.” It was gross.
In addition, Slabby had the seatbelts in his truck tucked into the crack, to facilitate trucksex, the German girl maintained.
“And,” she said, “they do freakdance at prom.”
Har! Freakdance! At prom!
Which brings me to this weekend. Friday evening I met Sex Machine, A.M., and Mr. Pistol at a bar in Manhattan. S.M. was outside skating with one of his buddies, and when he saw me, he threw his arms around me and announced, “I just fucked a girl in the bathroom like twenty minutes ago.”
Reader, it was a quarter past six. Dude is no joke. “No wonder you’ve got sexglow,” quoth I.
Later we found ourselves back at the Man Shanty, doing whipits. 4/20, dude! I’M SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. Except I’m not, and I could feel my brain cells dying much more keenly than back then. Like a pair of pincher-fingers crushing fireflies mid-glow; that’s what I felt happening in my skull. But it was also so fun.
The night ended at a club, where most of S.M.’s nights end. In this case it was Stereo, and I was pleased that at least there was whiskey on the table this time. I was wearing my pirate t-shirt and my librarian shoes, while all the other lasses were wearing stilettos and drapey shirts, and had just gotten back from weddings in Miami. (Kill yourself, banker.) There was talk of my being a librarian on a pirate ship, which I liked.
Folks, I did freakdance. I did freakdance with Mr. Pistol. I did freakdance with Sex Machine. I did freakdance with S.M.’s BFF J.Z.. Mr. Pistol and J.Z. made a manwich out of me. The DJ was decent, the whiskey was free, and most of my braincells were dead. There was no other choice but to dance. “Do you think I’m kidding?” I kept yelling in my freakpartner’s ear. “I am NOT joking around.”
Ever since then, I have felt pretty fried. But once in awhile, a synapse fires successfully.
Yesterday Left Hook and I were in the park, discussing a certain sweet, cute boy we know. I hauled one of my favorite creepy compliments (creepliments?) out of the vault: “If I were his mom, I would be so proud!”
Just then, Heartthrob McVainerson loped past. Long legs, por-nographic moustache, feigned I’m-dumb expression… the full regalia. He waved. We waved.
Lefty: “Guess whose mom is the opposite of proud?”
Pistol: “Seriously. How would YOU feel if your son was the sexwalk?”
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