Wednesday, January 23, 2013

School for Womanly Arts

I've always thought of myself as a head, Mr. Potato Head. A goofy mind, attached to this mass below, "my body" (that I even have one, a sin of an admission.) This is what it means to be raised Episcopalian. Best boy choirs in the world, good lemon curd what what?

There is certain sensuality in our pomp, but day to day, I'm as dry as a good walking stick on an post-prandial constitutional. 

So I think it's time for me to go to Mama Gena's School for Womanly Arts. Except we haven't a satellite in Baltimore, nor do I have the cash to cover "Pleasure Bootcamp," as it's known in New York, so I'm on my own, learning about nitric oxide, the pleasure chemical, just as I was in junior high school blowing the cap off a Coke with baking soda and vinegar. This experiment could go either way, you know?

Mama Gena makes the point that when she says "pleasure," everyone titters lasciviously, and thinks "sex." But it's more than that. Thank Gawd, I say to myself. Maybe I'll be good at it.

I've made myself a curriculum. Step one: Identify things that give me pleasure. Gawd, I feel like the cartoon strop Cathy even writing the word, "pleasure" it makes me feel sticky, and like I have crabs. What to do? So I doodled. Added "dome" to "pleasure." Pleasure-dome. Snarf! Hee-hee. 

See? I'm still here. Stuck on step one. Identify things that give me pleasure. First base. Isn't that the truth. But like coming down the stairs into the 1970s Plato's Retreat, you have to start somewhere.

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