Someone asked how babies were made, as a joke in a crowded bar. He wanted to hear the words associated with the task; the dry obscenities over the open public air. A table of fifteen friends, associates, familiar faces he'd seen every Monday through Friday for the past five years.
"That girl over there," he thought, "I want to hear her say vagina."
No one offered him an answer. Perhaps they didn't know how babies were made, the biology of it. All they could mutter would be terse words, "Sex." "Fucking." Beyond that, knowledge of blood and seed were non-existent. Babies weren't made, they thought. They come forth. Tear themselves into the world. A bundle of joy, a bag of bones. Holy and monstrous. The disaster of sex and boredom. A leash of flesh, a wet voiced piece of you and of an other.
His joke rested inside of them. They were getting older. Aged past their prime and kids still scared them. Drinking was easier than explaining children. Having children. Bringing them up with guiding light.
He needed someone to play along. To stand up to the task of being obscene in the dead space of the bar. All he wanted was a few words, brief descriptions of love making action.
He needed to know he wasn't the only one who knew it existed.
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2 comments:
hello coren. i haven't read you in a long time. it's good to be back. it's good to know that you are still good. whatever that means.
That's very kind of you. Sweet, in fact. It is always warm to read you; keeping things up and shining.
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