Viagra Says That Even A Mundane Moment Can Turn Romantic - Or IS That The Cialis Commercial I Saw Last Night While Watching Rachel Maddow?

Dirt is not a move or a sigh,

or having a heaving man between your thighs.

Dirt is knowing:

The scar below your left thigh,

the smell of your chest when you are angry,

the slight rise in your voice because I forgot to make you breakfast -

I've forgotten how to serve; only how to listen remains.

I breathe in your silence, fearing your words.

A couple is having sex in the other room - I can hear them.

Hear, or listen?

You once asked me, and I cried.

The night was bright: I could smell

the stars breath on glimmering leaves,

not quite yet dead, waiting for fall,

when our love fell apart like the glass they shatter at Jewish weddings.

Let's start afresh from the shards.

We could build each peice on top of the other,

with a jewel-maker's touch.

It is true, we will not have a glass,

but maybe we will have something just as beautiful -

a dove, or a swan - a sculpture that can not hold water,

and all from a single grain of sand:

That night when you looked into my eyes

and told me you supported abortion - well, not abortion, really,

but a woman's right to choose.

How romantic - almost as romantic as broken glass and starry night,

and all the other cliches I want to stuff into this non-poem,

as if it were a piece of pita, waiting for falafel:

Perhaps, if you taste my tehina, you will love me.

Perhaps you will get indigestion, and whisper my name angrily as you vomit.

It is enough to know your tongue has touched the letters of my name.

post-Coffee quickie

His lips smelled of cinnamon, and she could taste the coffee on his breath. Her legs were trembling, but not with desire - with pain, or was pain desire? The music throbbed loudly, because someone had decided the jay-Z was romantic, that is, romantic for other people besides Beyonce, and now there were a million thoughts running around in her head and she was hungry. "Damn youre good", he said, when they pulled apart. She wondered if hooking was really no more than good acting. 'you hungry?", he asked, flipping on the tv and off the music. "I´ll make us some omelettes", she said, hobbling to the kitchen. She could hear the false tv laughter in the background, mixing in with the sounds of the frying pan. A tear fell on the omelette - God, I hope that doesnt make it too salty, she thought, but really, she was relieved to know she could still cry. She served him sunny-side ups, with a desert of kisses.

a note on all blog entries

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G-Spot: A Play In one Act

Scene 1: A woman sits at a table, drinking coffee and reading a book. A man walks up to her, carrying a latte and a newspaper.

M: May I join you?
W: That depends. Why would you like to join me?
M: Because you know how to enjoy your coffee.

Beat.

And women who know how to enjoy their coffee, know how to enjoy their sex.

Beat.

W: That’s an interesting theory. Do you have any proof for it?
M: No, only anecdotal evidence.
W: Well I don’t mind if you sit, as long as you realize I’m not interested in being part of any experiments.

W picks up her book and studies it furiously, refusing to look at M. Clearly, she is not really reading. M sips his coffee leisurely, glancing over his paper.

M: I see what this is about.

W ignores him.

M: You’ve never had an orgasm.
W: Excuse me?
M: You’ve never had an orgasm.

W goes back to reading her book.

W: What makes you say that?
M: Excuse me?
W: What makes you say that I’ve never had an orgasm?
M: I can see it in your eyes!
W: Bullshit!
M: Well, have you ever had an orgasm?
W: That is none of your business!

W gets up to leave.

M: Wait! Let me buy you another cup of coffee?
W: Why?
M: So I can convince you of my theory.
W: You realize the only way you can prove your theory is by taking me home and giving me an orgasm, right?
M: I’d be more than happy to.
W: I’m not interested in using my body for the sake of science.

W walks out, off-stage.

Scene 2: Next day, same time, same place, same setup.

M: Mind if I join you?
W: Well, if it isn’t Mr. Orgasm.
M: I’ve always wanted that nickname.

W (laughs): I bet you have.

M sits down.

W: I didn’t give you an answer yet.
M: Well, if you want me to go, you’ll have to convince me to leave.
W: Ok, I’m an axe-murderer.
M: Please. I expect something a little creative, at least.
W: I’ve given you no reason for expectations.
M: I’m a man. It’s in our nature to hope.
W: Because you’re kicked down by women?

M shrugs. Picks up his paper and begins to read.

W: I take men, tie them to my bed, fuck them like crazy, whip them to death, and bury their bodies in the Hudson river.
M: We all have to die someday.
W: Are you telling me you’re not afraid of death?
M (shrugs): I mean, I’m not exactly looking forward to the thing, but as far as deaths go, the one you mentioned sounded kind of awesome. Anyhow, why worry about the inevitable, you know? M goes back to reading his paper.
W: Have you ever lost anyone close to you?

M looks up.

W: Well I have, and it was – awful. I don’t see how anyone can – I mean, the thought that all of this, our lives, you know, our bodies – that one day it will all be these little molecules of dirt being turned into fertilizer for trees in Centra Park so that squirrels can get their pine-nuts – how can you not be depressed when you think about it?
M: I just don’t think about it.

Beat.

M: Besides, I like squirrels. It’s nice to think that my body will be giving back – and who knows, maybe that squirrel will eat the pine nut and shit on my enemy’s leg or something, when he’s going for a walk with his girlfriend.

W (laughs): Now there’s a happy thought.
M: Lechaim.

They clink coffee glasses. Then each one goes back to reading their book/newspaper, looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes.

Scene 3: Same setup.

M: Can I join you?
W: Of course.

Beat.

W: I realized I lost the argument yesterday.
M: What?
W: I forgot to convince you to leave.

Beat.

W: I can’t stand losing arguments, so I made a pre-emptive list of reasons you should not sit with me:

1. I’m competitive.
2. I’ve never had an orgasm.
3. I’m depressed, and depressing.
4. I have a scar on my right thigh, from a tree-climbing accident, and it’s really ugly.

Beat.

M: Is that all?

W: Well I could go on, if you want.

M: Just out of curiosity, how many reasons do you have listed?

W: 25.

M laughs. M: OK, Well, first of all, I am sure that your right thigh is not ugly.

W: How do you know?

M: You realize the only way to prove it to me would be to show me your thighs, right?

W: Thigh.

M: Excuse me?

W: Well, I’d only have to show you my right thigh – to prove it, I mean.

M: How big is this scar anyway? I bet its so tiny, no one but you can see it.

W: Try me.

M: Excuse me?

W lifts up her skirt, quickly, then puts it down again.

M: Whoa.

Beat.

M: That is a beautiful thigh.

W laughs.

M: No, I’m serious – that’s just –

He takes his hand and starts stroking her thigh, above her skirt. She lets him do so for a minute, then pushes his hand away.

W: You still haven’t disproven my other points.

M: Well, one is obviously true. Three is clearly not, and two is easily remediable.

They look into each other’s eyes. She kisses him.

W: Come back here and convince me tomorrow.

She exits.

Scene 4: Same setting.

M: May I join you?

He sits down, without waiting for an answer.

M: I’m not going to convince you of anything. If you want to sleep with me, then sleep with me. If you don’t, you don’t. But I will tell you one thing: I like you. You’re smart and your beautiful (W smirks) – yes, I know that’s cliché! But you know what? It’s true! And I adore your right thigh!

Beat. W giggles.

M (in a harsh whisper): But if you don’t think those are good enough reasons to come home with me, then I’m sick of spending 3.99 on these lattes.

W: Yeah; they taste like shit, don’t they?

They both laugh.

W: Well, shall we?

They throw their cups out on their way out.

W: You still haven’t convinced me that it should be your apartment and not mine, you know.

M: Can I convince you on the subway?

Written on the inside cover of a book on slavery in souther brazil

"Rich people do not have to be pretty, and pretty people do not have to be rich", he said.

She looked at him. "You´re not joking."

He remained silent.

"You pig".

The sheets lay tangled between them; he could see the white cotton digging into the small of her back. He did not stretch out his hand, to stroke the place between the shadows. She was smoking a cigarette.

"I hate it when you smoke", he said.

"I know".

In the silence, he could see the smoke curling away from her smile.

"You forgot to buy the tickets", she said.

"I´m sorry - I had to stay late for the meeting, and it was raining - I just wanted to jump into a cab."

She lauged. "Yes, you like jumping".

"We´re not five anymore."

"No, we´re six - and you´re seven."

She turned around to face him. He waited for her to put her palm on his cheek. She didn´t. He turned over.

"Aren´t you going to brush your teeth?", she asked.

"No, I´m too tired", he yawned, turning off the light.

"Well I´m going to take a shower", she said, pulling off the sheets. He did not turn around: After twenty years, he had no need to see her naked body - he would rather remember. He thought of how when he kissed her, that night at the restaurant, her lips smelled of strawberries, and how she gave him strawberries for a midnight snack, the first night that he told her he loved her. He thought of her breasts that could no longer feed a child.

"I don´t want to be a cow", she had said.

"My God - you´ve reached menopause", he had replied, even though she said nothing when he started taking Viagra - except once, when he was watching porn.

"So they turn you on", she had snarled.

"No, its not - its just a coincidence, just a one-time thing".

She laughed. "God, you could at least be honest with me".

"I´m not God".

She did not laugh. That night, lying in bed, she whispered, "Well at least won´t die alone, eaten by cats".

"I hate cats", he said, "they´re evil".

"Almost as evil as men who watch porn". He could hear the laughter crawling back into her voice.

She looked up, suddenly aware of the feel of his arms around her shoulders:

"Well?"

"God, that is like, the most depressing story I´ve ever read."

"I know, right?"

"Well, I mean - its not as depressing as Kafka. But then, no one´s as depressing as Kafka".

"I don´t know. Have you read Gravity´s Rainbow? Its pretty fucking depressing."

"I don´t read books where the characters die of e. coli."

"Then how do you know the characters die of e. coli?"

"I read it in the National Enquirer".

He laughed and turned off the light. His arms were smooth and cold, like refrigerated plum-skins. She bit in.

Ramble

Give me your hand, she said, and I could feel the burning in my fingers, where you hand stopped and mine began; you had cold fingers.

I see it in your hand, she said, I see him - and I was ashamed, because I did not feel ashamed.

You can remove a tatoo, but who can remove a night from the flesh in between my thighs\/

I heard that a woman once had purim and pesach tattooed on the insides of her thighs, so her man would have something to eat between them, but I have lost my appetite.

Even pizza is no longer pleasing, perhaps because it is not as easily digested as it once was, and the men no longer come as smoothly as your fingers.

You think I am crazy. I am crazy.

I heard that joke from your mother once, before she bought me a box of lube - which is more than I can say of you, you pig - at least spend on proper condoms - the one form of brand-name luxury \i could afford, on those nights when I had finished working.

I don~t want to be just another job, you said.

Ill give you a job, I replied.

Well, the job is over now.

I do not know how it ended, or why it begun, only that I long for the nights when I did not cry.

after watching that new anne hathaway jake gyllenhal movie with my family in brazil

“I suppose this is the part where I tell you you need a woman to take care of you, and then I kiss you, and we take each other’s clothes off, as the camera zooms in on my thighs.”
“And?”
“Unzip your fly”.

Her lips moved with precision and passion. Her hands were long and thin, like pale spiders. Sometimes he thought they glistened in the moonlight, but then he realized it was her tears, which had slipped down to her fingers. He did not ask her why she was crying. She did not ask him why he interrupted every meal to pee.

Love has many forms, but every time they tried mapping their relationship onto the different structures from Lola’s French textbook: Present Indicative, Subjunctive, Past Imperfect, Future – none ever seemed to fit: Here her thighs curved to much to the left, there, his jaw jutted out of the page. “Maybe we are just a completely un-grammatical sentence, waiting to be punctuated.” “But if there’s no grammar, who says we need punctuation?” She could feel his words on her earlobe.

“Maybe our love is not a sentence. Maybe it’s a pile”, he said one day, looking at the mess of clothes and books and pans that lay in waves at their feet, as they curled up into a pillow that had been left on the floor the night before. “Maybe”, she said, and it occurred to him that the mess didn’t bother her at all, and that, maybe, bothered him a little. He kissed her shoulders. She purred. She had the loudest orgasms. “How do you know they’re not fake?”, his brother once asked. “Trust, me, I know”, he replied.

There is not much left to say for them, Lola Mcarthur and Michael Morgan, who lie blissfully in each other’s arms, not feeling the time slip like sweat beneath their armpits. The hurtful words, the broken dishes – these are all no more than the faintest shadows of nightmares, chiseled away with kisses that they think are stronger than iron. Let them sleep; soon enough they will awake to realities that remind them of the beauty of nightmares.