the writing and photography of Neil Kramer
The rules of etiquette are important to me.
Dirty laundry, we shouldn’t see.
Always close the bathroom door.
Pick up the bathmat from the floor.
Always dress in the nicest attire.
In case you have to run out during a fire.
But when I take my pen in hand,
I give myself a new demand.
To walk the house and show it all,
Strutting down the apartment hall.
(Mayer Kirshenblatt’s “Purim Play: The Krakow Wedding”)
(translated from the Yiddish by Neil Kramer — ok, not really)
The wealthiest man in town went to the village Rabbi and said, “All my life, I worked hard. I have become rich and successful. But now everyone in town feels jealous of me, and I feel like a stranger in my own village. What should I do?”
The Rabbi pondered this question, like Rabbis tend to do, and then replied, “You need to convince the others, that despite your great wealth, you are the the same as they are, a man of flesh and blood, a man who laughs and cries.”
The wealthiest man in town nodded, understanding the Rabbi’s wisdom.
So, on Shabbos, the wealthiest man in town went to the home of the poorest family in the village and shared their humble Sabbath dinner. He ate their radishes and bread. He shared stories, and he laughed and he cried, and after the meal, he announced, “I am just like you,” and then he called his horse and carriage to take him back to his palatial home on the hill.
The next day, the wealthiest man in town returned to the Rabbi and said the plan was as unsuccessful as getting a donkey to carry a bucket of water with his teeth. The minute he returned to his home on the hill, everyone hated him again. Not one person in town believed that he was “just like them.”
The Rabbi stroked his beard and thought and thought, analyzing the situation. Finallly, he spoke. “I think our villagers are a insecure bunch with self-esteem issues,” he said. “Rather than telling others that you are “just like them,” which doesn’t impress them, since they don’t think very highly of themselves anyway, it is better if you say “You are just like me,” so that they will feel ennobled and inspired that you — the wealthiest man in town — see them as equals.
So, that Shabbos, the wealthiest man in town invited as many villagers as could fit into his dining room and offered them a grand feast of duck and beef and exotic vegetables, all brought in from Prague, served on his best Polish dishware. After the meal, he toasted the group with a glass of wine and said, “You are just like me,” and then the villagers returned home, on foot, down the hill, along the dusty, rocky road, their faces souring like Kosher pickles with each step closer to their dingy village.
The next morning, the Rabbi was already stroking his beard when the wealthiest man in town arrived at the shul.  The Rabbi had already heard the not-so-favorable gossip about his grand announcement of, “You are just like me,” which was as pleasing to the town as the off-key singing voice of the butcher’s wife, who could sometimes be heard warbling Yiddish lullabies as she chased the chickens in the yard before they were killed.
The wealthiest man in town was desperate, and Rabbi was determined to find the answer. “This appears to be a problem that even King Solomon would struggle with in solving.” he said as he opened the Talmud. “The villagers were offended when you said, “I am just like you.” And they were insulted when you said, “You are just like me.” Perhaps the only solution is NOT to make any announcements at all. True?”
The wealthiest man in town nodded, and left the rabbi, but in all honesty, he was dumbfounded by the Rabbi’s vague wisdom, but since he was the only Rabbi in town, the wealthiest man in town was stuck with his advice, and figured he better follow it.
So, on Shabbos, the wealthiest man in town suggested that the entire village throw a dinner in the center of town, with each family bringing a dish of their choice. It was a beautiful sunset and as the darkness covered the sky like a warm blanket, the stars opened their eyes and flickered like candles.  The villagers dined on the large selection of food, from simple beans to expensive fish, which was all spread on one enormous table covered in a pearl white cloth, and the wealthiest man in town ate and drank and danced and flirted and prayed with all of the others until the next morning, and never once did he say, “I am like you” or “You are like me,” and for the first time in years, he felt like he was part of the village, and they accepted him.
One day I would like to own my words. Unfortunately, I still rent.
Sure, sometimes I borrow. Sometimes I even steal. But mostly it is a month to month payment plan.
Today was a beautiful day in New York. It was a good day to try to own some words. I don’t know if you all know this, but in New York City, words like to fly in the summer air, hoping to escape the heat of all the tiny apartments without sufficient air conditioning. I woke up early, hoping to beat the other word-searchers, and headed to Central Park with my butterfly net. I was ready to catch some words, wrestle them to the ground if necessary. Once they were in my possession, I would take them home on the subway, trapping them in a coffee can I brought in a knapsack, and then — tad-ah! — I would finally own my words. How proud I would be to write a new post, announcing to everyone that the words you are reading are my own true words, copyrighted and trademarked like Google, Disney, and Snapple!
I was tip-toeing near the Central Park boathouse, binoculars at eye-level, when I encountered a middle-aged couple in the midst of an argument. They were about 50 feet up ahead. He had a gray beard and looked like a professor. She was thin, with the demeanor of a magazine editor. She looked like Diane Keaton. I tried to eavesdrop on their argument, but couldn’t make out much of the conversation. They spoke in a calm manner, even during this heated discussion, nothing like the dishes thrown against wall affairs in my own home. The professor said something about “Martin” and “Connecticut” and “not again.” He was very animated with his hands. The magazine editor said, “You’re wrong!” She said it was a sudden energy, with an anger she didn’t even know existed, and she was jolted by her own words, and it was at that moment that I saw the word “wrong” speed away into the muggy air, like a thoroughbred at the Belmont Stakes. Was the word “wrong” angry? Was it waiting for this moment of intensity to finally escape the tension building in this woman’s tongue and lips and vocal cords. I did not wait to learn. I really didn’t care. I had work to do. I was going to capture that word for my own.
I know some of you are members of PETA or humanists who don’t think I should be out in Central Park hunting down words and capturing them like slaves in Egypt, imprisoning them for my own enjoyment, forcing them into hard labor. I know your type. Hypocrites! How much do you pay your own words? I read your blogs. Do you give your words medical care? Or do you just use your words like Walmart uses Chinese children in a Guangdong sweatshop, making sweaters for suburban housewives at discount prices?
Let’s get real. The world of words is one of finders keepers. If I can capture a word with my butterfly net, it is none of your freakin’ business.
I raced through the park, and down Fifth Avenue, smashing my elbow into baby strollers, like a swag-crazy mother at the Swiffer party at BlogHer, a predator after my prey.  I wanted that word.
And then with one long off-balanced swoop of the arm, I grabbed the word, entrapping it in my net. At least. I now owned a word.
I owned the word “wrong.”
Why are our joys so short-lived? By the time, I returned to Queens, much of my enthusiasm had faded. I had time to think while on that lonely subway ride. What could I do with one word? After all, there is not much to write when you only own one word.
Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.
It is a little boring, right?
So, I released the word, and off “Wrong” flew, over Valentino’s Pizzeria and into the night sky.
I’m still a renter of words. One day, I hope to find the right group of words, and make them my own.
I know I will hear cries of bullshit from the mob, but the name of one of the baristas at my local coffee shop is Scheherazade. She is Persian. When I heard her friends call her by that name, my eyes lit up. Scheherazade is one of my favorite literary characters, the legendary Persian queen and the storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights.
The famous story goes that every day the Persian King would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday’s wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was betraying him. He had killed three thousand such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier’s daughter.
According to Wikipedia, Scheherazade was described by in Sir Richard F. Burton’s translation this way:
“[She] had perused the books, annals and legends of preceding Kings, and the stories, examples and instances of by gone men and things; indeed it was said that she had collected a thousand books of histories relating to antique races and departed rulers. She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred.”
Against her father’s protestations, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King’s chambers, she started to tell a story to the King, and The King liked it so much, he asked for another, but Scheherazade said there was not time as dawn was breaking, and much like a network promo, insisted that the next story was even more exciting.
And so the King kept Scheherazade alive as he eagerly anticipated each new story, until, one thousand and one adventurous nights, and three sons later, Scheherazade who became his Queen.
Scheherazade is the ultimate storyteller. Can you imagine how good a blog she would have? There would be no writer’s block for her. She would have to come up with one amazing tale after another, or DIE. Of course, the King HAD to fall in love with her because of her amazing talent. She wouldn’t have time or energy to waste her time on the 140 character Twitter, avoiding the challenge of having to come up with a beginning, middle, and end.
Sometimes people ask me why I started blogging, and I never have a clear answer. I’m not trying to make money, help anyone “learn” anything, or even hone my writing skills. I just have fun writing stories, sometimes stupid and sometimes serious. I like to be honest and I also enjoy stretching my personality so a different part of my id shows up. I love that my mother reads my blog and it makes her laugh. I love the comments of long-time readers who know when I’m lying. I once got an email from a reader who told me she played with herself after reading one of my sexually-oriented posts. I cried after saving that email. That was worth more to me than four years of BlogHer ads. Sure, I want attention, like everyone, but the fact that I am communicating to you with my direct words, saying things that I would not in polite company makes me feel like I am floating in the air while fucking the angels in heaven.
I don’t get that feeling online anywhere else than on my blog.
When I heard the barista’s name called out on that day in the coffee shop, I immediately went up to her and asked excitedly, “Your name is Scheherazade?!”
She was taken aback. She was a pretty girl, no more that twenty-three, and probably got hit on by customers all the time, and I must have seemed like some sleazy guy using some opening line.
“Yes,” she said. Or just “Sherry.”
“Sherry! Oh no, Scheherazade is an amazing name. I’ve never met anyone named it before. You HAVE to use the full name.”
At this point, she looked like she was about to call the manager to tell him to throw me out of the establishment.
“Do you know who Scheherazade was?”
She said that it meant something, like a fruit or flower, in Farsi. Who knows? Maybe it does, but clearly she was ignorant about the important meaning.
“Scheherazade was the beautiful AMAZING woman who told the 1001 Tales in the Arabian Nights!”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have another customer.”
She dashed away to make a cappuccino, eager to leave the aging pervert with the graying hair. She had no interest at all in me or my story. Or even the story of her own name!
But luckily, YOU do. And I see this as a sign. Even Scheherazade, the ultimate storyteller, is not interesting until there is a story built around her. So I finally dragged myself off Twitter and Facebook because I had to write a story about Scherazarde, the barista in the Redondo Beach Coffee Company.
On, Saturday, July 25, at 3PM — Amy of Doobleh-vah and I will be offering a Room of Your Own at BlogHer called Blogging as Storytelling. It is for those who care about Schehrazade more than giveaways. It will be so good that you will have to return to your hotel room afterwards to play with yourself.
(fictional)
Westchester, NYÂ -Â Tuesday night
I went shopping for some bread and juice. Afterwards, I sat in my car for two hours playing checkers on my iphone.  My foot had fallen asleep. I hobbled out of the Prius and entered the house. She was watching All My Children on Tivo.  She had just taken a shower and was wearing a towel. I walked over and put my hands on her breasts.
“What are you doing, Matthew?”
“I want to feel you up.”
I pulled the towel down and covered massaged her breasts with my hands. I was rougher than usual.
“What are you doing? Stop it!” she said. “How about a hello?”
“Can’t I feel up my own wife whenever I want? Isn’t that in the marriage contract?”
“I’m watching TV. Don’t grab me,” she grumbled, as she pushed me away.
“C’mon, Beth. I really want to feel you up. I need to feel you up.”
On All My Children, Stuart Chandler had just died, and mega-millionaire bad guy Adam Chandler was grieving. Stupid soap opera. So unrealistic.
I grabbed her breasts again.
“They’re not bicycle horns that you squeeze. Be gentle.”
She told me to sit down, like a teacher instructing her student.
“Sit behind me and you can feel me up as we watch the soap.”
During the commercial, I rubbed against her. I was hoping that she would reach for my hardness.
“You want to fuck?” I whispered in her ear.
She swatted my nose.
“Don’t say that. It sounds disgusting coming out of your mouth.”
I found that insulting to my manhood. She curses all the time. I should be able to say what is on my mind.
“I want to fuck you now.”
I bit her neck.
“Stop it. You don’t know what the hell you are even doing.”
“You know, screw you!” I screamed as I slid from behind her like a snake.
Orange peels were scattered all over the coffee table. This bugged the shit out of me.
“Why don’t you throw out the orange peels?”
“They were here this morning. Why didn’t you throw them out?”
“I didn’t eat the orange. You did. Are you waiting for me to throw the orange peels out from the orange that YOU ate?”
She pointed to the remote sitting on the coffee table next to me.
“Can you pause the TV. I’m missing the soap because of you.”
“Screw you.”
“No, screw you!” she said as she reached over and threw an orange peel at my chest.
I considered that an ultra-violent act, and I thought about retailiating, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate other than pulling her hair, which would just be too girlish for my ego. I imagined punching her. The horror of the thought brought shame.
I quickly gathered up all the orange peels and huffed and puffed my way into the kitchen to toss them into the overflowing trash can, filled with all sorts of crap, none of it sorted for recycling like I wanted.  My bad. I just couldn’t concentrate on being green this month. Fuck the environment. Let the normal married people worry about the planet during their happy little lives.  I decided to take out the garbage, but my body could not move. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me do it, walking past her with a sack of garbage, smiling in that ass-kissing manner of a maid in the Sheraton Hotel.
Dirty dishes were in the sink, and I hate unwashed dishes, with the smell of moldy leftovers filling the air, so I would wash the dishes.  That, I would do for MYSELF, not her.
I turned on the water to wash them. She immediately called out from the living room.
“What are you doing?”
“The dishes.”
“Can you do them later? I can’t hear the soap with the water running.”
I turned the water on higher. I am spiteful. I know.
“I’m doing the dishes now. Sorry. Didn’t you ask me to do the dishes?”
“No. I didn’t ask you to do the dishes at all.”
“Well, ONE of us has to do it.  Is it going to be YOU?”
Fighting words.
“OK. OK. Do the dishes. ” she said. “I’ll pause the TV again.”
Good. I won the battle.
I could hear the TV sound stop in mid-sentence, as I returned to the dishes, the hot water burning my hand, but somehow enjoying the pain.
She entered into the kitchen, naked, smiling.  She always has that contented look when I am doing the dishes.  But I don’t find it sexy at all.  It feels manipulative, like I am caving into the master. I want to be loved all the time, not when I am doing stuff for her.
I could feel her breathe on my neck as I scrubbed the burnt rice off of a pot that has been sitting in the sink for two days.
“Let me kiss you,” she said.
I half-turned and gave her a small peck on the lips.
“No, a REAL kiss.”
“I’m busy. I’m scrubbing shit off this post. I don’t want to kiss.”
“Well, put down the pot and kiss.”
I turned to the naked woman and we kissed. I had an intense urge to finish cleaning the pot.
“Don’t you know how to kiss?” she said, with a tone of disappointment.
“I don’t want to kiss.”
“So why were you feeling me up before?”
“Because I wanted to feel you up. Not kiss.”
“Well, if you’re not going to kiss…”
“Forget it.”
“You just wanted to fuck me on the couch without kissing?”
“I don’t want to kiss or fuck ANYONE who leaves their orange peels on the living room table and waits for me to clean it up.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and go back on Twitter and fuck someone on there.”
“You’re a bitch.”
She spit on the floor, which I always assumed was some insult from her homeland.
Later on, we went out for frozen yogurt and played Yahtzee on the iphone, and never mentioned what happened before. Which is not unusual.
I won both games of Yahtzee and that made me happy. Â We slept in separate beds.
Young Renaldo was invisible to his parents. He sat all day in front of the television and watched cartoons. He wanted to run away, but where would he go? It was easier to just turn into an easy chair. This way, he could sit in the living room forever, and not have to worry about eating, sleeping, or doing any homework.
One night, after dinner, Renaldo’s parents finally noticed that Renaldo was missing. They asked each other about Renaldo’s whereabouts. They shrugged.
“Who knows?” said Renaldo’s mother.
Renaldo’s parents instantly forgot about him because they had a more pressing problem. An easy chair had suddenly appeared in the middle of the living room. Their apartment was tiny, and the addition of the easy chair made it difficult for the parent’s to pass, en route to the bathroom. The next day, Renaldo’s father shipped the chair off to the Salvation Army.
The easy chair sat in the city’s Salvation Army store for the next twenty-five years. Renaldo’s parents died, having forgotten about Renaldo a long time ago. One day, Sarah, a divorced and anxiety-ridden woman, came into the store. She had recently moved into a new apartment after being laid off from her job. She was looking for an easy chair. She noticed Renaldo, now a thirty-five year old easy chair. She was not impressed with the chair. It was dusty. The attendant at the store, a balding black man with a silver tooth, appeared behind Sarah, eager to finally get rid of this old chair.
“You can have this one at 70% off,” he said.
Sarah figured it was a good deal, and bought the easy chair. The attendant helped her tie the chair to the roof of her car, and Sarah brought Renaldo back to her small home, in a less-than-fashionable part of town.
Sarah cleaned up the easy chair, vacuuming away the dust, and placed it in front of her TV. Renaldo was overjoyed. He had not watched television for twenty-five years, and he sorely missed it. And there were so many more cable channels now! Food channels! Decorating channels! Cartoon channels!
In the morning, Sarah would turn on the Exercise Channel! — and do her aerobics with a group of health-oriented women on the screen, one of them, the always-smiling instructor, shouting out platitudes like “You go girl!” Sarah would do her exercising in her panties and bra. Renaldo was mesmerized by Sarah’s womanly body. This was so much more interesting than any cartoon!  As Sarah did her “step” routine, Renaldo would watch her round ass move to the musical beat. Renaldo’s favorite time was at night, during Sarah’s favorite primetime TV shows, “The Bachelor,” “CSI Miami,” and”American Idol,” because she would lean back in the easy chair, relaxed, and Renaldo felt her body next to hers. He would feel powerful and exciting sensations, and have thoughts and feelings that were dormant for so many years.
One day, Sarah woke up in the easy chair, having spent the night dreaming her night with the shirtless Sawyer on the island of “Lost.” She stood up from the chair and felt sick. She threw up. She went to her doctor.
“You’re pregnant,” he told her.
This was a mind-blowing announcement. Sarah had not had sex with anyone since she was divorced from Andrew two years ago. Sarah was a woman of reason, and would not even entertain the thought of some religious experience, or that she was carrying Satan’s baby, like in a movie. There had to be a logical explanation for her pregnancy.
She gave the issue some thought, and concluded that she felt the most comfortable when she was sitting in the easy chair. She had spent hours in that chair. Sometimes, after a hard day at the office, she would just sit there, her eyes closed, and imagined that the easy chair was a handsome man who massaged her breasts and kissed her on the neck and whispered love poems into her ear.
“Are you my lover?” Sarah asked the easy chair, turning to Renaldo.
Her acknowledgement of Renaldo’s existence released Renaldo from the fears and hurts that had plagued him since childhood. He was finally noticed by someone — a beautiful woman who he loved, a woman who was eager for his touch.
Renaldo suddenly appeared before Sarah as a handsome thirty-five year old man. He had returned to reality, and he was happy. And Sarah was happy. Sarah stopped watching TV, not needing the distraction any more. Every night, she would come home from work, and she would make passionate love to Renaldo. Renaldo loved Sarah’s changing body and asked her to marry him.  She said yes. Several months later, the baby was born, a boy. They named him Sal, after the Salvation Army where Renaldo and Sarah first met.
Dealing with a baby was difficult for Sarah. The baby’s crying kept her up at night and her focus revolved around the demanding child. When she had some free time, Sarah just wanted to escape and watch TV. Renaldo grew irritable, missing how things used to be with his wife. Now, everything was about “the baby.” Sarah had no patience for the nagging Renaldo. One night, she had a dream that Renaldo transformed back into a comfortable old easy chair. It was so much easier back then. When she woke up, Renaldo, the man was gone. Just like she hoped, Renaldo had returned to being a thirty-five year old easy chair. That night, after putting the beautiful baby to bed, Sarah relaxed in the easy chair and watched Sawyer take off his shirt on “Lost.” She was now happy.
My first observation when I moved into the retirement community at Century Village was the lack of men at the clubhouse. The ratio was 2-1.
“Where are all the men?” I asked.
“They’re dead,” said Rita, my blunt neighbor, a former buyer at Macy’s.
That made sense, as the women lived, on the average, for another seven-eight years after their husbands had passed.
My name is Birdie. Two years after moving to Boca Raton from Queens, my husband, Sam, a shoemaker and amateur trumpeter, collapsed as he was in line waiting to buy a 12-Pack of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda at Publix. As his heart beat its last solo, Sam tightly gripped a can of his favorite soda in his wedding-ringed hand.
“Damn, and the soda was on sale!” he said as his soul floated to heaven.
Sam was a good man.
Today is my 76th birthday. In the morning, Rita drove me to the Bagel House on Glades Street. Rita always drove at 5 MPH, so it took us a half hour to go three blocks. Rita never learned to drive in Brooklyn, so after her husband, Donald, died of a stroke, she took driving lessons with an Israeli driving instructor named Tal, and after ten lessons, she knew how to navigate the roads, well… barely. Rita could drive to the Bagel House, to Publix, and to Walgreens, but she didn’t venture much further than one mile from the retirement village.
At the Bagel House, Rita and I met up with Eleanor and Sunny. We played canasta as the Century Village foursome known as the “Dorseters,” named that because we lived in the “Dorset section” of the complex. At the Bagel House, I ordered my favorite breakfast dish – pastrami and eggs, with an everything bagel and cream cheese. Normally, I would order the non-fat cream cheese, but since it was my birthday, I felt that I should treat myself special.
After breakfast, we all returned to Rita’s apartment for our Wednesday afternoon canasta game. We were mid-way into the game, with Eleanor in the lead, the Stella Dora cookies almost gone, when we heard the sound of running water. Rita gave me a knowing glance.
“Should we?” asked Rita.
“No,” said Birdie. I have been brought up to say “no,” even when I didn’t know the meaning of the question. I especially said “no” to Rita when she asked a question. I love Rita, but our personalities are quite different, and I know that a question from Rita, a firecracker despite her two hip replacements, always meant trouble. This time, I understood Rita’s question, and what it entailed.
“What are you ladies talking about?” asked Sunny.
Rita beckoned to us, and we all gathered at the window, stepping behind the yellow couch, a wedding present from Rita’s in-laws, that Donald insisted that they take with them to Florida from their old apartment in South Philadelphia. Rita never was sure whether his reasons for shipping the couch were romantic and sentimental about their marriage, or his perennial nature as a momma’s boy, wanting to keep the memory of his mother alive with the couch.
“Oh my,” said Eleanor, as we all looked through Rita’s living room window into the shower stall of the adjacent apartment, Apartment D. The bathroom window in the other apartment was ajar. A young man — 30ish? — was taking a shower, unaware that his entire body was visible to whoever was in Rita’s living room. The young man had a broad chest and strong legs.
“Who is he?” asked Sunny.
Rita explained that he was the son of the woman who had just moved in, a snowbird renter, like many of the tenants. The son was visiting for the week. He was recently divorced.
Rita had already mentioned to me, in private, about the young man’s daily showers.
“You should come over and take a peek.” she said.
I told Rita that I wasn’t a sleazy voyeur… like her.
“I’m a grandmother!” I said, tossing my white hair like an ancient supermodel.
Twice, during the last week, I ran into the young man while walking the Dorset corridor, as I made my way to the laundry room. When I passed him by, I felt a sadness surrounding him. He nodded, but never spoke.
“Every afternoon, like clockwork, he takes a shower.” Rita told the other women, sounding as if she was one of those retired women who become a docent at the Bronx Zoo, volunteering just to get out of the house. “A very interesting shower.”
It was a beautiful South Florida day. Rita, Eleanor, Sunny, and I peered through the slats of Rita’s blinds, gazing at the naked young man taking a shower, the steamy stream of water hitting his body as he pleasured himself.
“When a man strokes his c*ck with his right hand like that, does that mean he is right handed?” Eleanor asked.
The women laughed at Eleanor, a retired second grade teacher with a New York accent. They never expected her to say the word “c*ck.”
“Donald used his left hand.” said Rita. “Although, sometimes he used his right hand. He was ambidextrous.”
“Marvin used both hands at once.” said Sunny.
“Tiny Marvin used both hands?” asked Rita.
Sunny nodded.
“Tiny Marvin had a dick the size of a kosher salami. I just wish he had been a better kisser, God rest his soul. But he was blessed him with a penis to die for, so I guess you can’t have everything in life.”
I was very uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family, and my dear, but strict, mother always avoided talking to me about the birds and the bees. Sex was for procreation and was to remain hidden from sight and thought.
I wanted to say to my friends, “Maybe we should return to our canasta game…,” but my lips could not form the words and I was unable to move away from the window, as if a magnetic force was keeping me fixed in place.
I sighed, accepting the fact that I was enjoying the young man. He seemed lost in his own world, his masculine hand moving up and down over his hardness. Who was he thinking about? Was he making love to a stranger or his wife? A childhood sweetheart? A movie star? A chance encounter on the beach? Was he making love to the woman the way she liked it — first entering her slowly, then faster, than slower again, as their bodies became one? Could his lover taste his sweaty salty lips as their tongues intertwined in a passionate dance? Was the woman as wet and eager as I had been herself in my younger days, when I used to make love with Sam after Shabbat dinner, riding him on the easy chair in the living room until he came inside of me, and I muffled my own cry so as not to wake up the two sleeping kids.
The young man in the shower had long brown hair, was tanned, and his penis stood proudly, at full attention, reminding me of that old photo of my husband when he was dressed in his captain’s uniform on that Navy ship, saluting the American flag. Captain Sam Horowitz. So handsome.
“What a good-looking young man,” said Sunny about the naked man in the shower, as she fanned herself with a take-out menu of the local Chinese restaurant. She was diabetic and always hot, but now she was hot for another reason. I could see Sunny’s nipples harden. I was always jealous of Sunny’s full breasts, still womanly despite her age, not sagging like mine.
I was feeling dizzy and tried to pull herself away from the window for a second time.
“C’mon, ladies, we have a game to play. We’re too old to be…”
“Nonsense,” said Rita. “Last week, I went out with Seymour Miller to Ben’s Deli for dinner. We’re not too old to be enjoying men.”
“There’s a big difference about having a deli sandwich with Seymour and THIS!” I said, always the moral center of any group, always the party pooper.
“The deli sandwich was the appetizer.” replied Rita. “He spent the rest of the night eating out my p*ssy in his apartment.”
“Oy!” said Eleanor. “I mean… WOW!”
“Randall was always reluctant to do that because he thought my vagina smelled like fish,” said Sunny.
“Donald said the same thing!” said Rita. “Stupid men. When I told Seymour what Donald used to say, he laughed. “I just had herring for dinner at Ben’s, true? I love the taste of fish!”
“What’s Seymour’s phone number again?” joked Sunny.
“Eventually, the darling man exhausted himself with all his work and fell asleep right between my legs.” continued Rita. “All night, as he snored, I could feel his breath against me, like a warm ocean breeze against my most sensitive spot. It was such a tender and warm feeling.”
I had to hand it to Rita. She had a young spirit. I wondered what Sam would be thinking, watching from his Laz-e-boy chair in heaven — as four old women in their seventies transformed into peeping Tom-isinas, and acted like shameless hussies. Sam would probably be laughing. Drinking a Dr. Brown’s soda and laughing.
A month ago, I bought myself a vibrator online. When I received the vibrator in a plain brown wrap envelope, I was surprised at the shape. The large purple object seemed more like a sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art than a human penis. I never owned a vibrator before, although I had friends who swore by them. I decided to try this model after I read about it on my daughter’s “mommy blog.”
Lisa, my daughter, became upset when I once commented on her blog, so now I make believe that I never read it. The whole concept is foreign to me. Isn’t there privacy anymore? Do others really care about her baby’s poo?
“Who reads this anyway?” I once asked Lisa.
“A lot of people, Mom. You just won’t understand. I’m very very popular. I’m considered one of the top 10 influential mothers of 2008, according to Online Advertising Magazine. Mothers come to me for advice. I’m my own brand!”
“You’ve only been a mother for three years. What do you know about being a mother?”
“That is soooo typical of you. You can’t appreciate my accomplishments. Being a mother nowadays is a lot different than when YOU WERE A MOTHER. It’s much more complicated. It’s a juggling act — being a mother, being a businesswoman, being a role model for other women.”
I didn’t tell her daughter about the vibrator. Lisa would have said, “That’s gross.” I was also hurt when Lisa made the comment, “When YOU WERE A MOTHER,” as if I wasn’t a mother anymore. This was further proof that Lisa knows very little about being a mother. A mother is always a mother. She has so much to learn.
The young man in the shower groaned in a deep animalistic manner. His body flew back as he had his orgasm and the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, sitting on an unsteady shelf, fell on top of him, as if the bottles were pissed at him for coming too soon, before they had their own orgasms.
The women of the canasta group laughed at the comedy of the attack of the bottles, as the man covered his head for protection and his dick rocked side to side. The young man turned towards the window, hearing the giggles, and the four women — Birdie, Rita, Eleanor, and Sunny — jumped back like little girls, the blinds quickly closing in a click. The retirees ran back to the table, their hearts beating from all the excitement and drama.
“OK, whose turn is it?” asked Eleanor, the sensible school teacher, hoping to return everyone back to the canasta game. She picked up a pencil, out of instinct, as if she was about to take attendance.
But the class was not ready to go back to their studies.
“He’s certainly a good-looking young man.” said Sunny. “We should introduce him to one of the yoga instructors at the clubhouse.”
“Nice body,” said Rita, as she munched on a Stella Dora cookie.
I stood up, feeling nervous, as if I were about to make an important announcement, or a toast, or a commencement speech.
“I enjoyed giving Sam blowjobs in the morning,” I told the other members of the canasta group. “Last night, I used my new vibrator for the first time, and as it hummed inside of me, I thought about my husband. And the humming reminded me of his trumpet playing. And a little bit of his pacemaker. I miss him.”
“I’m sure he was in heaven, playing his trumpet, and missing you too. Probably playing with himself, if I know men,” said Rita.
“I hope so,” I replied. “Or at least having a good time up there with someone else. He deserves it. As long as he’s not f**king my late sister, Miriam. She was always stealing my boyfriends. What a bitch.”
The other women laughed again. It was turning into a memorable day. My phone rang. It was Lisa, making her obligatory Wednesday afternoon phone call/birthday call. I shut off the phone.
“I’ll speak to my daughter later.” she told the others. “Right now, I’m enjoying my birthday with my girlfriends.”
Yesterday, on Citizen of the Month, I talked about the importance of storytelling in blogging, and brought up that idea of a storytelling session at BlogHer. (you can sign up to attend or present during this session over here)
I hope this idea that bloggers are writers doesn’t scare anyone off. There are quite a few bloggers who don’t want to consider themselves writers, because then they will get writer’s block, always comparing their little slices of life to the “bigger, dramatic” stories of literature, stories like 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Grapes of Wrath, or Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Having your husband lose the remote control of your Playstation is just not as dramatic as turning into a cockroach or fighting a giant octopus under the sea.
Of course, we all have our dramatic moments to write about. Life-changing moments always happen in our lives — births, deaths, divorces, but not every day, and as writers, we can’t sit around waiting for some big event to occur while we post photos of our cats everyday on our blogs. I mean, we could, and many of you actually do, but it doesn’t make for exciting blog reading, and there is little chance that you will ever end up on Dooce’s blogroll.
The truth is, even a “nothing” story can be improved with story structure. Most of my story ideas usually suck. But if you stick with, a story usually develops. Let’s analyze today’s blog post AS I WRITE IT, hoping that it will be a learning tool.
Now at this point, I have no idea what I am going to write about, but I am hoping some story will come to me from the muses above, which I will then structure into something mildly coherent. It doesn’t always work, so bear with me.
Nothing of interest happened to me today. I’m not just saying that to get your sympathy just in case this post is really bad. I really mean it. It was so hot in my apartment in Queens today. The radiator is blasting, and there is no manual control, so I was even forced to turn on the air conditioning for a half hour! In the winter! The heat makes me groggy. I did a little writing, with the emphasis on the word little, and slept half of the afternoon. I spoke to my mother on the phone. I ate a tomato. That is my day. What the hell kind of story can I write about with that lame material?
Let’s start at the beginning.
Main character:
Neilochka.
Characteristics:
A little horny. A little frugal. Is that my full character? Of course not! But those two traits will be emphasized today because it will help me create a coherent story.
Beginning of Story:
Earlier today, I did leave the house. I went downstairs to the “compactor room” where we bring our cans and bottles for recycling. It is a no-no to throw these items down the incinerator chute, and the management says so in screaming red fonts on every door to every incinerator chute on every floor. There are even more rules to follow on the door of the compactor room.
A few months ago, down in the lobby, someone started a simple, but brilliant idea in a little alcove across from the compactor room. Rather than throwing away some old books, the tenant left them on one of the several empty shelves in the alcove. Within days, everyone noticed this, and the concept took off. This tiny nook has become the apartment building’s open-access library.
Tenants bring books, tenants take books. There are currently over a hundred books in our make-shift library. A pile of magazines has also developed, as varied as the interests of the building’s tenants, from Glamour to Golf to Jewish Philosophy. Whenever I bring down my recycling, I rifle through the pile of magazines, looking for something interesting to read, say in the bathroom.
(This is where the frugal characteristic comes to play, so my taking of one of the magazines in the story is not just a random act, but a logical extension of the fact that I would never actually buy these magazines)
Today, I found the March 2009 issue of Marie Claire. I don’t know too much about the magazine, but I have heard a couple of mommybloggers saying that it is their favorite women’s magazine. Well, to be more truthful, there were three hot women on the cover, so I figured I would check out the magazine.
(This is where the horniness element comes into play, further pushing the story along)
Middle of Story:
Now that the premise has been set up — Neilochka, a frugal horny guy picks up a free used copy of next month’s Marie Claire, it is time to expand on the theme.
This middle section of the story — the second act in dramatic terms — is the one that always causes writer’s block. What happens now? What does Neilochka do with the magazine? Does he play with himself? Nah, that gimmick is overused on this blog and is too OBVIOUS! Does he get into a fight with the original owner of the magazine who didn’t really leave it for others in the library, but accidentally dropped it on the lobby floor, and now accuses Neilochka of theft, and calls the police on him? That would be an EXCELLENT plot twist, and I might have gone in that direction if I was trying to be fictional, but I’m trying to stick with the real-life facts here to prove a point.
The truth is — nothing really happens in the real life second act of my story, other than me skimming through this very boring magazine, which is mostly filled with advertisements of anorexic young models selling stuff. But do you notice that I am using an old writing trick called “misdirection?” Writers use misdirection when their plot is so THIN, that they have to fill in the space with something unrelated to capture your interest. So, since I didn’t play with myself or get into a fist-fight over the magazine with another tenant, I am just blabbing on and on about anorexic models and other subjects, hoping that you won’t notice that nothing of interest is really going on. Sometimes, you just have to go with the inferior material and push it forward. TV shows do it all the time. That’s why TV shows always have guest stars showing up in their weakest episodes. Whenever a sitcom story is getting boring, some producer will say, “Let’s bring in Drew Carey or Mary Tyler Moore or one of the Jonas Brothers as a guest star so the audience won’t notice that this episode is boring as hell!”
Now that I have wasted some time with misdirection, I revert back to the story. Clever right?
OK, smack in the middle of Marie Claire magazine was an interview with a hip new all-girl rock band currently playing gigs in NY and LA. What caught my eye was that the girls were all wearing short skirts… and their bras. Apparently they are a rock group called The Vassarettes. In the interview, they talk about the importance of rocking the house while just wearing their bras, and being the first “bra band.”
Emily: “It’s totally empowering and liberating being up there onstage with nothing holding us back. It’s girl power times a million.
Kai Elle: “It means girls rule!”
Erin: “It means it’s cool for women to thrash.”
Alexa: “It means giving everything you’ve got and leaving nothing onstage.”
I was pretty impressed with the confidence of these brash young rockers. I also assumed that they were fairly bright and were called the Vassarettes because they met at Vassar College. Did this rock band idea come out of a project they were working on in their Feminist Studies class?
I actually have some good stories to tell about Vassar. There was this one girl… But I will leave this story for another day. Remember this rule! Don’t burn yourself out with each story. When you get a new idea while writing your current post, jot it down and use it on a rainy day!
The End of Story:
Let’s recap.
Beginning of Story – Neilochka, a frugal horny guy picks up a free used copy of next month’s Marie Claire magazine.
Middle of Story — Neilochka is bored by dull magazine until he sees four chicks in their bras and his eyes widen, until The Vassrettes bring up old memories, like a misty fog, as he remembers a smiling buxom young woman from Vassar College, much like the aging King Lear once thought back to his youthful encounters at the end of Shakespeare’s tragedy.
A good finale should always contain a big twist, that thrusts the story into an entirely new direction, creating excitement and drama for the audience. Think of every thriller you have ever seen in the movies. “Oh no, the killer isn’t the drug addict, it is really HIS MORMON SCHOOLTEACHER WIFE!”
A good blog post should have this same type of dramatic twist. In this case, I googled The Vassarettes in order to see the video of them performing their terrible pseudo-Spice Girls song in their bras.
Never in my life have I actually been turned OFF by women in their bras. The whole gimmick was just stupid. This spurred me on to do some more research, and I discovered that this “band” was not formed in the dorms of Vassar, but was created as a promotional gimmick for a brand of bra called “Vassarette.” Apparently this bra company, which is a Vanity Fair brand, is trying to sex up their image to compete with Victoria’s Secret.
This is the surprise twist. OK, it is not the biggest surprise in the world, but remember we are writing a blog post, not Crime and Punishment, so get off my case! I didn’t say this was going to be a GREAT post, just a post from crappy material.
And like in any good story, this twist should have a profound effect on our protagonist, in this case – Neilochka.
Up until now, we have known only two basic things about Neilochka — he is frugal and takes free magazines, and he is horny and likes to look at women in their bras. Now, towards the end of the story, it is time to create a more fully-developed character, showing his arc and character growth. Neilochka is not just frugal and horny. We now discover a new side to his personality. He is also cranky and opinionated, and he especially hates it when marketers and advertisers try to manipulate their consumers with stupid ideas like creating a girl band playing rock music in their bras, and promoting it as “empowerment.”
It is the time for the finale!
Tensions rise as the hero and villain meet on the battlefield. There is Neilochka, the David, with a tiny little blog without ads, and zilch power in society. The villain, the Goliath, is like any bad guy in any James Bond movie, or Madame Defarge in “Tale of Two Cities” a demonic figure, relentless in her goal to dominate the world. The Vassarette Bra company and her henchmen — the Vanity Fair Brand, Style Network, and Marie Claire Magazine — all want to pollute our airwaves with awful girl bands playing shitty rock music in their bras. And only ONE MAN can stop them. Neilochka! But how? With the only true weapon any blogger has at his disposal — sarcasm.
Neilochka would like to introduce you to his own hard rockin’ boy band, direct from JAPAN that perform their totally empowering music while only wearing cock rings, making the Vassarettes look silly in comparison.
END OF STORY
(OK, maybe nothing can save this story, but I tried)
GO HOME
Part Two
William looked for his keys in the usual places, under the couch, on the kitchen table, in the side pocket of the red cardigan sweater that he wore during his long walks on Sunday dusk at the beach, where he was always the last person on Earth to watch the sun set on another weekend.
It was 11:45 PM. Time was speeding towards the New Year, and William had no car keys. Was God sending William a message? Was it preordained that he would always be the last? William laughed to himself. Even if he found the car keys, he knew what would happen next.  The car wouldn’t start! The battery would be dead. There would be no gas. It was his destiny. He could not break out of his status quo. There was no one to offer him a friendly hand or a kind word. There was only… himself, Willam Z. Zweig, a simple man who always came in last, an outsider with curly brown hair, now with a wisp of grey, ten fingers imperfect from his habit of nail-biting, and two large feet. William looked down at these feet and for the first time in his life, acknowledged them as his dear friends. William could depend on them for help. He could run!
Pebbles and dust flew into the air as William raced down Itu Asau Road. He could feel the shadow of the approaching New Year barreling towards him with every step. The revelers of the world had long gone home from Times Square and Trafalgar Square, and the First Moment of 2009 was ready to call it a day in Samoa, like the overworked postman stumbling through his final stop on his daily rounds.
William race, controlling his breathing, maintaining his focus.  He need to pass his neighbor’s house so he would not be last. Up ahead, he could see a glimmer of light. It was the lantern that his neighbor, the cocoa exporter, kept on his front porch. Pa’aga, a silver-haired life-long bachelor, an avid gardener of tomatoes, was sitting outside, in his favorite rattan chair, comfortably waiting for the arrival of the New Year.  William slowed his pace, not wanting to create any suspicion, hoping to walk past Pa’aga without even a conversation. William pretended that he was taking a leisurely nighttime stroll, although his tense posture was a sure giveaway of something else. As William passed the home of Pa’aga, William stepped on a twig and it cracked. Pa’aga switched on a flashlight, the bright ray striking William in his sweaty and anxious face.
“Oh, it’s you William,” said the friendly Pa’aga. “How are you, my neighbor? Happy Almost New Year!”
“Happy Almost New Year to you,” replied William, still walking, not missing a beat.
“Where are you going at this hour?” asked Pa’aga, the ultra-curious intonation in his voice making William’s stomach turn.”
“Just taking a walk.”
“What a pleasant way to bring in the New Year. I’ll join you.” he said.
William almost fainted from the tension.
It was 11:54. William and Pa’aga were now walking side by side. If William stepped up the pace, so did Pa’aga. His neighbor’s breathing was erratic, as if the speed was too much for him, but he gave no indication of slowing. William liked the good-natured Pa’aga, and had no problems with him. In fact, Pa’aga has always been the most gracious neighbor, even coming over once to help capture a feisty lizard that had once made his way into William’s kitchen. William’s only concern now was not to be the last… again.
Pa’aga was a talkative man, and as the two men strolled together in a perfectly even line, like soldiers marching in unison, they chatted, mostly about local gossip. Did the local pastor really have an affair with the rugby coach’s wife? Will coconut prices skyrocket after the bad summer?
William’s mind drifted. He was younger than his Samoan neighbor and could probably outrun him, but Pa’aga was in good shape from years of physical labor in the fields, so William could not be assured of beating him in a foot race. William thought of tripping Pa’aga; he would have the element of surprise on his side. Pa’aga would stumble and fall on his face, while William would race towards the New Year, reaching it a split second before his friend. While this plan seemed practical, this idea, and the very fact that he thought it, saddened William. He was not a violent man, and pushing Pa’aga went against everything he believed in since childhood. William’s darker self berated his moral stance, stating quite forcefully that this inability to take the necessary action was William’s biggest problem. Was he afraid of doing “what it takes” in order NOT to be last?
“It’s 11:58.” said Pa’aga. “It’s almost New Year’s. Are you making any resolutions, my friend?”
William’s demeanor changed. He heart was warmed by Pa’aga’s caring concern for his well-being, and his own icy scheming melted away. William smiled at his neighbor.
“I would like to change some things in my life,” said William. “I don’t know if I would call it a resolution, but I would like to take more action in my life.”
“I have been thinking the same about my own life.”
William nodded. Perhaps the two neighbors, the Samoan and the outsider, were soulmates after all. William came up with a new idea for the final moments of the year, one of compromise. They would enter the New Year together, hand in hand, side by side, so NO one would be last. They would face the future in unison, like musicians playing a duet, each guiding the other, helping him achieve his personal goals.
“I read a good book this year about taking action,” continued Pa’aga. “It is called “Rich Samoan/Poor Samoan: Stop Being a Loser.” Have you read it?”
“No,” said William. “But I know it was a best-seller.”
“In the book, the author says that the world consists of winners and losers, and it is your action that determines your position in life…”
As he spoke those words, William noticed a gleam in Pa’aga’s eyes. He had seen this look before in a few of the villagers after they drove into town and attended that free self-help seminar with the newly successful author of “Rich Samoan/Poor Samoan: Stop Being a Loser.” When they returned back to their farms and tiny homes, they all had this same look, as if they had gone through a major transformation. Their new gaze exuded power and confidence, but read icy and cold, something foreign to this tropical island.
Pa’aga looked at his watch.
“It is almost the New Year, my friend. 10-9-8-7…”
At the count of seven, Pa’aga reached down and grabbed a fallen palm tree branch, then strongly whacked it against William’s knees. William fell down in excruciating pain.
“I’m sorry,” said Pa’aga, “I’m a winner.”
Pa’aga walked several feet ahead of William.  William tried to stand up, but he couldn’t move. He fell into the wet mud. Pa’aga stared at his watch again.
“…3…2…1. Happy New Year to me!”
Pa’aga paused for a split-second.
“And now, Happy New Year to you! Even though you are last, William, I hope this is a healthy and happy year for you.”
Pa’aga helped William up, shook his hand in the friendly manner of most Samoans, and returned to his home. William stood there, dead to his feelings.
New Year’s Eve had arrived in Samoa. William was the last to celebrate, as usual. This was his fate. Distraught, William refused to return home. He didn’t want to look at his face in the mirror, to sit alone in the last house on the last plot of land, in the most Western corner of the last island. He shook off the pain and staggered into town. If there ever was a night to go to Sammy’s, the local Tiki bar, and drink himself to a stupor, tonight was the night.
It took William an hour to get to Sammy’s bar. Broken champagne bottles and confetti covered the parking lot. There had been a lot of partying going on earlier, and now most of the Samoan revelers were back home, safely tucked in bed with their loved one, content with their lot in life, and positive about their future.
William Z. Zweig entered the bar and sat at the counter. He ordered a drink. The only customer still there was Aysa, the woman who ran the village coffee shop. She had dirty blond hair and attractive features, but there was a sadness to her posture. She had just finished her fourth mojito. William didn’t know Aysa very well. He rarely went into coffee shops, since he was always the onew being served last.
Aysa ordered another drink.
“You sure?” asked the bartender.
“Bring it on.” she slurred.
Aysa was alone on this New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have offers. Men asked her out all the time. Even the mayor’s brother, N’iao, had invited her to black-tie even at the town hall sponsored by the sugar industry. But Aysa didn’t click with the local Samoan men. She went on dates out of obligation, because she was hopeful. She had needs, just like all women. She wanted love, companionship, and sex, but the men she met were selfish.  They didn’t listen to her needs, or care about her satisfaction.
“Better to just drink mojitos at Sammy’s on New Year’s Eve,” she told herself earlier in the day. And now she regretted the decision. The loneliness was overwhelming, and no amount of liquor could fill the emptiness within.
“Happy New Year” grumbled a sarcastic William to Aysa as he paid for his first drink.  He left the bartender a nice tip, figuring someone should be happy tonight.
“Yeah,” said Aysa. “To you, too. Happy New Year.”
As a man who was always last, William understood pain, and and he could feel Aysa’s unhappiness surrounding him, touching his skin.
“It’s a new year. Time to start anew. Did you have a bad year?” asked William, trying to get her to open up, thinking this would help her move on to a fresh start.
“Yeah, bad. Bad Choices. Bad Men. No love. No comfort. Selfish men who cared only about themselves.”
Aysa hadn’t had an orgasm in three years. Although she blamed the men in her life, she knew deep down that this was her own fault as well. She didn’t know how to relax, even after a drink.
William bowed his head in shame. It was as if Aysa saw right through him. He was a selfish man like the others, only caring about his position in life. His lastness had consumed his every thought, drove him from his childhood home, isolated him, and almost made him push Pa’aga onto the ground, going against his own very nature.
Aysa didn’t know William very well, but she had seem him around town, usually avoiding coming in to her coffee shop.  He seemed interesting, but eccentric.
“And what about you?” she asked. “What are you doing alone on New Year’s eve in an empty Samoan bar? What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” William sighed. “My problem is that I always come last.”
That night, Aysa had three orgasms. William was in her bed, and came last.
“I love you, William Z. Zweig,” she said.
As the two lovers snuggled in Aysa’s thatch-covered home, William embraced his lastness, finally understanding God’s will and His plan for his future. It was a Happy New Year.
I’ve written a lot lately on the difficulties of a man and a woman becoming platonic friends. This has been a theme throughout my life. In my experience, something always gets in the way.
After I graduated from Columbia, I moved into an apartment on 110th Street and Broadway. My roommate was Miyako, a female graduate student from Tokyo, who was studying physics. We quickly became good friends. She attended her first Passover seder at my home. She taught me to eat exotic sashimi. Our apartment was beautifully decorated with Japanese tea sets, woodblock prints from the Sosaku Hanga, and an authentic 19th Century nihontÅ Samurai sword on the wall, a gift from her uncle in Kyoto. There was no romance between us, only deep platonic friendship.
Things changed quickly when I met my Ellie. She was an exciting and sensual young woman from Connecticut. She opened up my mind and body to new pleasures. Before Ellie, I had never experienced oral sex. Ellie was obsessed with “giving head.” She love the passion, the vulnerability, and the control. Every morning I would wake up and find her already at work, slowly going up and down, hungrily taking me between her moistened lips, always totally in charge. As she pleasured me, she would stare at me with her beautiful, but foreboding, sky blue eyes, and I would be mesmerized, under her hypnotic gaze. She always had me at full attention, and I was her slave.
Ellie’s intense passion also had a dark side. She had an irrational hatred for Miyako. She was jealous of our platonic bond. Ellie wanted me only for herself.
One night, while Miyako was studying at the library, Ellie was giving me amazing head in the kitchen. As I leaned against the refrigerator, I noticed that there was something different in Ellie’s intensity. There was hatred in her eyes.
“You must kill Miyako. You must kill Miyako tonight!”
I tried to protest, but I was powerless. As she sucked my c*ck, I grew lightheaded, and all morality evaporated from my soul. I had no choice but to relent to her every whim. I needed to obey. I would kill my friend, Miyako.
At 11PM, Miyako returned from the library, drinking a cup of coffee from the Greek diner downstairs. Ellie hid in my room. I stood in the darkness of the foyer, the samurai sword from the wall gripped in my hand. I held the handle with such pressure that my veins felt like they were going to pop.
As Miyako stepped inside, she was humming a little tune. It was a Japanese children’s song about a little bird learning to fly. This was her favorite song. It was an innocent song, like Miyako herself. Like the innocence of a platonic friendship. The song touched my moral center. Is this what sexual desire does to a man — turns him into a craven murderer? Who was I? What had happened to that once nice Jewish boy? Had too much oral sex turned me into a monster?
“I cannot do it! No, I won’t kill you, Miyako!” I screamed.
Miyako turned, startled by the sight of me with the Samurai sword in my hand. She dropped the coffee cup onto the floor, the hot liquid spilling on the cold wood floor. She let out a silent scream. Ellie raced out of my bedroom, pulling at her long hair, her eyes angry at my betrayal.
“Do it!” she insisted. “Kill her. Kill her NOW!”
I glanced at Ellie, my beautiful lover. I turned to Miyako, a dear and trusting friend.
“Kill her. Kill her. Or I will kill her myself!” said Ellie.
Ellie lunged at Miyako, her jealous rage written all on her face.
“No!” I yelled. It was my final decree. I would close the chapter on this sexual, but horrific, chapter of my young life. I lifted the Samurai sword up high. The light from the track lighting in the kitchen refracted off the metal and I could see a mirror image of my determined face in the curved blade.
With one swoop, I swung the Samurai sword, decapitating Ellie.
For several minutes, Miyako and I stood in silence. What words could ever truly capture the terror on our faces? I took a deep breathe, taking in the life force, and eventually found enough reason to tell my tale to Miyako, from beginning to end. There was no catharsis in the re-telling of the murderous plot.
Miyako, being a good friend, was not concerned with the past. She was worried about me.
“You can get arrested for this.” she noted. “We need to get rid of the body.”
We gathered up the bloody body and the decapitated head and placed them in an old Japanese trunk that Miyako used as a changing bench in her bedroom. She told me of a lake in the Catskill Mountains where we could safely dispose of the body. We would drive there immediately, during the cover of night.
As we drove up through Westchester, the two of us had an emotional conversation. In one wild night, circumstances had brought us closer than ever before. We revealed that there was more to our relationship than just platonic feelings. Miyako admitted that when she went to the library at night, it was not to study, but out of jealousy. She could not bear to hear the sounds coming from our bedroom.
“What did she do to make you so content… so full of joy?” she asked, curiously. “Do you think I could ever make you so happy?”
It was at that moment, that I heard a faint voice coming from the trunk of the car.
“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”
It was the voice of Ellie. But how? Was my mind playing tricks on me?
“You don’t hear anything, do you?” I asked Miyako. “Like a voice from inside the trunk of the car?”
“Whose voice?”
“Ellie.”
Miyako laughed. She was a scientist.
“You mean a ghost?!”
Miyako always became argumentative whenever one of our friends brought up a subject like ESP, UFOs, religion or Bigfoot. If there was no empirical evidence, she thought it was hogwash.
I giggled along with Miyako. Of course she was right. Ellie was decapitated! The trauma of the evening was affecting my judgement. I was being silly.
“So, you never answered,” Miyako asks, returning to her question. “What DID you find so attractive about Ellie?”
I heard the voice once more.
“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”
I started to sweat profusely.
I slapped myself, trying to snap out of the craziness. Could it be… that Ellie’s chopped off HEAD was talking to me from inside the trunk?
Miyako still heard nothing. She pulled over next to an embankment looking out over Lananasee Lake, the car still running.
“We can dump her down there,” she said.
I nodded, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Ellie’s hypntoic voice was ringing in my ear.
“I know this is nuts, Miyako…” I said. “But can Ellie still be alive in there?”
Miyako grew petulant.
“I believe in global warming. I believe in evolution. I believe that one day the Mets might win another World Series. I don’t not believe in talking decapitated heads. And I’ll prove it to you…”
Miyako put on the brake and stepped out car.
“N-n-No!!” I stuttered, as I ran after her.
“Stop being a baby, Neil.” she said. “You’re a man, not a scaredy cat. I was so impressed the way you killed this horrible woman. And now you’re acting like a meek little girl afraid of her shadow.”
Her words stung like a poisoned arrow. She was right. I was born a man. A man shows no fear. A man is proud. A woman respects a man who looks danger in the eye.
Miyako opened up the hatchback of her car. Ellie’s voice grew louder.
“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”
The sound was deafening, but only I could hear it. Miyako grabbed the Japanese trunk and slid open the top open.
“There. See for yourself!” said Miyako.
I prayed to God, swallowed my fear, and looked inside. My eyes bulged in horror! It was empty! All that I could hear, all that I could think about was Ellie.
“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”
The voice was so close I could feel the breath on the back of my neck. I did a quick turn just as Miyako grabbed my hand in fear. In front of us was the headless Ellie. Under her arm, she carried her bloody, decapitated head, her eyes still alive, her mouth still moving.
“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”
Ellie moved the head towards the frightened Miyako. I ran to protect Miyako, but the Ellie pushed me aside, as only a scorned headless woman could do. Suddenly, the Samurai sword appeared in Ellie’s other hand, ready to be used. She approached Miyako, who was now frozen in fear.
I lifted myself up, stumbling against the car, aware that I could never make it to Miyako I time to save her. It was then that I felt the hum of the car engine against my arm, remembering that Miyako left the car running. I reached through the open window, pulled the gear to “Reverse,” and pressed the gas pedal with my hand. The car careened backwards.
“Miyako, move away!” I screamed.
Miyako awoke from her fearful slumber and shot to the side, just as the car smashed directly into Ellie, throwing both her and her screaming head off the cliff, and into the shallow depths of the lake, the car exploding on top of her.
“Giving HEAAAAADDDDD…”
A week later, Miyako moved out as my roommate. We never spoke again. Recently, she even refused to become my friend on Facebook, just proving how difficult it is for men and women to become friends.
Ellie’s body was recovered by the Dutchess County Police Department, but her head was never found.
Can Ellie’s head still be out there?
Men… be careful out there. Women can be dangerous.
Happy Halloween.
Truth quotient: Are you an idiot?
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