It’s awkward for me to write about this without sounding like a total ass, because it contains not only semi-gratuitous sex references, but shameless self-aggrandizement thinly veiled beneath self-deprecation, all adorned with lots of pretense and giggly school-girlishness. I find myself in a narrative dilemma similar to that of Charlie Kauffman from “Adaptation,” like, “Do I just tell the story? Do I acknowledge how it’s blatantly a story one only relates out of some appreciation of it’s potential comic shock value? Do I include a pussy little disclaimer, so that I look all polite when, in fact, I’ve been dying to tell you this? Do I lodge another disclaimer in the middle of the disclaimer? Should I acknowledge the possibility that what follows is neither funny nor shocking?” Done, and DONE! Anyway …

So, it’s Saturday, and my friend and I are having one of our disgustingly effusive mutual pep talks. I’m sitting on the rocks by the lake, he’s in his apartment in the suburbs, and he’s going on and on about my awesomeness, how much it hurts him that I don’t see how gorgeous I am, etcetera. I really don’t know how to reply, because in that awkward situation, even the simple, appropriate response of “Thanks” makes one feel like an overly diplomatic jackass. But this particular friend has an endearingly lacking sense of propriety when it comes to people he cares about, so he is adamant.

He’s all, “You’re perfect. Your personality, your body, your face … you’re smart and hilarious, and I just love you. You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever met, along with my wife.”

Yeah, he’s married, and very much in love with his wife. She’s a friend of mine as well. Perhaps I should have mentioned that, but that totally woulda fucked with my narrative groove, yo.

Anyway, he goes on to tell me that his wife also thinks I’m the shit; I tell him that I think she’s pretty awesome, too. And then, he eventually tells me that they’re swingers and would love it if I would be their girlfriend. Oh, and that he still thinks of me when he masturbates.

Still? Like, this has been an ongoing thing?

Now, my immediate reaction was not only “Um …”, but also, “… Hm.” You know? I mean, okay, coming from this particular friend, it wasn’t really a shock. And please believe me that he was awfully sweet in the way he asked, like it was this gigantic confession that he had been dying to get off his chest, and the proposition unfolded much more gracefully than the way it was depicted above.

He’s on the phone in his apartment, pouring out his poly-amorous little heart to me, and I’m by the lake, listening through my cell phone, feeling flattered and a little touched and also sort of embarrassed for my poor friend, who seems so fucking bashful about it, and so afraid that he’s weirded me out. He hasn’t. I’m okay with it. At the same time, though, while I listen, I’m on the other end of the phone mouthing the words “This is my life. This is my fucking life.”

I’m not a big astrology junky, but if anyone out there is willing, I’d love to have my star chart done. It would be interesting to see if my “energy” forecast consists of prolonged, arid tumbleweed waltzes, interspersed with torrential anvil downpours. My approach to personal development, in many areas of my life, hasn’t been what for lots of folks is described as a gradual incline dappled with occasional pitfalls. I feel like I’ve been put on one of those mechanical airport pedways, coasting calmly along, until the fucking thing deposits me over the edge of some precipice.

I haven’t had much dating experience. I haven’t had an actual boyfriend in God knows how long. But it’s somehow typical that one of the only heartfelt, lovey propositions I’ve had in years is to invite me to be a much-beloved concubine for a married couple. No, seriously. All of my romantic endeavors have been dumb, ill-timed, ill-fated, ill-advised, or just rather sordid.

If my life were to be portrayed in a porno, there would be no bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm heavy-bass, percussive soundtrack. No Barry White. Nope, my pornographic biopic would be accompanied by something twangy and silly, like “Dueling Banjos.”

Knock-knock

“It’s the plumber. I’ve a-come to fix the sink.”
“Come on in, pardner.”
“Ma’am, you ain’t got nuthin’ ‘neath yer overalls!”
“And, oooohhh, it makes me soooo cold! Y’all oughta come warm me up.”

Cue “Dueling Banjos”

BA DA BING BING BING BING BING BING BING!

My friend and his wife often work different hours, so they’re looking not only for someone with whom to have a little three-way fun, but also to “take care” of them when spouse A or spouse B is not available. No thanks. Sounds a little too sex-slavish to me. He wasn’t expecting me to say yes, but just wanted to let me know that I was the first choice, and that they both really liked me, and that regardless, he was going to set to work finding me a great guy of my very own. Thanks, man.

Well, in a way, it’s an honor just to be nominated. And to tell perhaps-too-much truth, I didn’t dismiss him off-hand, but I do think it would be a really bad idea in this case. I want to have a continued relationship with these people, and it would get way too messy if we started, like, dating.

Now, I was a really late bloomer. Like, really late. And, while I’ve never been a prude, I was quite sheltered for a long time, and am still kind of naďve about some things. I mean, I know that there are all sorts of wacky possibilities in the world of relationships, and that they sometimes involve team sports, but I never considered the possibility that I’d be asked to play. I never imagined how I'd handle an invitation to be fucked by one of my best friends and his wife, and I didn't really know where to file the request. I don’t know, I guess that as far as rites of passage are concerned, I never thought I’d cross this particular coming-of-age threshold.

It’s like “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” Skinamax-style. Francis Nolan Goes Wild.

I feel like I should have some kind of mitzvah. A Drei Mitzvah. Mazel tov!*

I must admit, though, that it’s no small comfort to know that I basically have open access to a three-way booty call. It’s in my hands. Not many people can boast that; and yes, I think it’s something to boast of. If I’m ever stuck on a desert island or holed up in a blizzard, while other people sit around in the dark lamenting, “I want my microwave chicken pot-pie” or “I want my MTV,” I will be thinking “I want my three-way booty call.” And when my friends do find their communal girlfriend, I fully plan on sitting back and thinking to myself, “She wasn’t the favorite.”

And, yes, my friends, all of this makes me cool.

* Oh, man. My Drei Mitzvah would be a fucking disaster. Almost every coming-of-age landmark in my life belongs in some really lame, overdone sitcom.

- First communion, I sat next to a horrifying little girl who couldn’t stop farting. Every time she let one rip, she’d turn to me and announce, “I made a poopy-bubble.”

You try taking a big bite out of Jesus while trying to deflect some bizarre kid's poopy-bubbles.

- I participated in the Brownies when I was a little girl, though I was never really into it. I remember there being some ceremony marking the passage from “Brownie” to “Girl Scout,” involving the crossing of the bridge and spinning around or something. I fell flat on my face mid-bridge, and decided at that point that I was so done with the Girl Scouts.

- I already told you about my first kiss, and that my first boyfriend was a homo.

- I didn’t get my period without some kind of medical inducement until I was 19 or so, and when I was 17, my freaked-out mom had the doctor put me on some wonky hormone jacker-upper so that I would have a simulated period, just to make sure I had all my working parts. So, that was my big, red passage into womanhood. Lovely.

- Oh, yeah. About that. My “first bleed” was not only copious, but also very, very untidy. There wa’n’t no pad that could have possibly predicted the spatter of that tidal flow. It was so out of control, that I went to the doctor to see if someone had installed some kind of sprinkler system in my uterus, and it was discovered that the reason for my Jackson Pollock inspired flow was that my hymen attached at a diagonal, causing the menstrual blood to spurt all over the place. To avoid future such spattery debacles, the doctor put my feet in the trusty stirrups, slipped me a Valium, and snip-snipped the hymen. So, I had my cherry surgically popped. FREAK.

- I think I attended my first actual, normal gynecological appointment while my poor then-boyfriend sat in the waiting room. Who does that?

- Catholic Confirmation occurs during junior year of high school, traditionally. By the time mine rolled around, my family and I knew that I wasn’t strong in my faith, wasn’t big on religion, and probably shouldn’t have been confirmed. I was also in a play at the time, was never home, and the whole ceremony was becoming a huge hassle. But, in the spirit of Pascal’s “The Wager,” we all dove in. (My family has always been really cool about my lack of religious participation.) The head church lady would call my house to interview me, or something, but I was never home, so my mom just started making up answers to get the lady off her back. (Church ladies can be beastly.) Thanks, Mom.

Before the ceremony, each confirmation candidate was to go talk to a priest, and have him answer any questions he/she might have. My turn came, and I went into the rectory to talk to Father Welsh. Poor Father Welsh. He asked me if I had any questions, and I think I asked him something impossibly nebulous, like, “Why are we doing this?”

I wasn’t trying to be some dark, teenaged, Zen wiseass. I really thought there was some simple, technical answer, and I could just shrug, say OK, and go on my merry way. I was just wondering why we had to do this gown-wearing, candle-lighting thing, why we couldn’t just get a letter in the mail or something, but I’m afraid it came out sounding either flip, or philosophical. “What does it all mean, Father Welsh? What does it all mean?”

Father Welsh was never so good at thinking outside the box, so, after giving me a panicked look, he stared at his hands and attempted to answer my question by reciting the entire New Testament. I felt so dumb, and so bad for the poor guy.

- I spent the entirety of my high school graduation wrestling with a wire sculpture that I had made and attached to my mortarboard. It was a cool sculpture, but my mom thought it was really disrespectful, and I felt guilty and tried, unsuccessfully, to remove it. The superintendent complimented me on it, though, when I went to get my diploma.

If I ever get married, I should probably just cut to the chase and have the ceremony in either a circus, or a maximum-security prison.

(Ba da bing bing bing bing bing bing bing …)

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004