Some nights the orgasm is a woman instead of a man. Why not? she asks as she glides into black stockings and nothing else. Unless she has guests. Then she puts on a brassiere to match. She says she doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—she says this as she adjusts her straps, but this is what she wears whenever she composes herself in the afterlife. If you insist on staying, or even if you don’t, she plays the organ all night long, her stockinged legs pumping the pedals, the music filling her rooms. Music, she says, is a genii trapped in the bones. It is the last thoughts of orgasms who have passed and all those who will be gone soon. She has to let the songs go. Every last moan and wobbly note. When she tires, she slips out of the stockings, massages her toes, and walks on bare feet to her tiny bed. She sleeps with no covers, no clothes at all, no clock. There’s a tiny ladder to a loft upstairs where lost souls sleep. Or cats. Her bed is too small for two. The truth: each night she floats like a musical note in the air, looking for lips that can sing and fingers that can strum or stroke her back to life. She is looking for you, Love. Or your long-lost soul. Nothing less.
If Orgasms Were Poodles
after Brecht
If orgasms were poodles, we could keep them on leashes or dress them up like the dogs one purchases at Pet World. One would have to take good care of them of course—perhaps line their cages with soft bedding, and bathe them regularly. (No one appreciates those unhygienic orgasms who carry diseases and the scent of low tide.) An occasional squirt of Febreze could fix them right up, though orgasms are sensitive to sprays and frequently suffer allergic reactions. No one wants to end up in an emergency room. Or worse, the morgue. Nor does anyone want to explain what happened, who is to be blamed, or worse, be deprived of the orgasms. After all, the orgasms offer such pleasure to humans, humans owe it to their orgasms to care for it as they would their most beloved and pampered poodles.
If Orgasms Were Paris
If orgasms were Paris, a person could visit them on vacation. He would only need to purchase a ticket. Reserve a room. Maybe hire a tour guide.
But sometimes the tickets might be sold out. Or too costly. After all, not just anyone can purchase a ticket on a whim. And of course, airlines are unreliable. Often a traveler gets stuck in Newark, New Jersey. In Washington D.C.. Or Philadelphia. Purgatory, have you noticed, has so many names? And what if there were headwinds, mechanical difficulties, sick pilots? Volcanic eruptions and tropical storms have caused planes to detour to other cities, or even countries. Who wants to board a plane that won’t get him where he wishes he were going?
And then there’s the question of leg-room. A man can’t always fit comfortably in a regular seat, nor can he afford first class. And even if price is not a problem, what about those endless chattering, snoring, sneezing, or gum-chewing seat mates?
Even if he arrives, no problem, and he has a room reserved at a fancy hotel, surely he has read that many rooms, even in the finest Paris hotels are said to have bed bugs these days. “Punaises de lit” Parisians call them, meaning bed drawing pins. Who can enjoy himself with the thought of a drawing pin in his mattress?
Of course some live to tell of their luxurious Paris views, fine French wines, and strolls along the Champs Elysees. It happens. Of course it does. We have all heard those who talk about their splendid vacations. Some even become tour guides. How did I get so lucky? they ask.
Listening to such braggarts is enough to destroy the simplest pleasures of life, of perhaps a hot cup of tea, a biscuit, or an after dinner mint. I’ve always been a fan of my after dinner mint.
One morning on a whim the orgasms met to discuss the humans. “Friends,” they said to one another, “let’s play the game of royalty again.” They chose one man to be king and one woman to be queen. The woman laughed and trembled when the man held her hand. The man kept telling her of all the trials his life had run him through, how many battles he had lost and won, how many enemies he had poisoned, how at last he had her. Only she mattered. They kissed. They swooned. They made love again and again.
They were royalty for the entire evening, walking through the palace gardens of their dreams. They could have been Adam and Eve. King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot. How gullible they were. How easy it was for the orgasms to fool them.
Nin Andrews is the author of 5 chapbooks and 5 books of poetry. Her most recent collection is Southern Comfort published by CavanKerry Press.