Stillborn Romance
Long ago and far away, a twelve year old girl was on her first date. There was a movie and a hamburger and a walk home. During that walk, holding hands and gazing dreamily at her 14 year old beau, visions of her first kiss played out in her head. Like the flickering of an old Nickelodeon, the scene played out with the flowing accompaniment of a full orchestra and a gentle breeze blowing through their hair. He would take her face in his hands and gently lean in. As their lips touched for the first time, the orchestra would flare up into a smashing crescendo and THE KISS would happen. Perfect in every way, it would last for minutes and would be seared into her memory forever!
In reality, there was no musical accompaniment, no wind, gentle or otherwise. He did not take her face in his hands and lean in gently. He pushed her into the darkened alley next to her house and, before she knew it, he had her in a lip lock. Not a wonderfully gentle kiss, but a full, open mouth assault, which ended abruptly when his braces cut her tongue and blood rushed into her mouth!
Date over! Fantasy crushed!
In the harsh, glaring light of her bathroom, she inspected the injury and replayed the horrifying event in her shell-shocked mind. She thought about what was supposed to happen and what actually did. She thought about the boy, who, up until this moment, she had always thought looked a lot like Shawn Cassidy, and realized he was a geek in a snorkel coat! This realization washed over her with the power of a killer rip tide, and she did the only thing she could do: PUKE!
When the purging was over and a good night's sleep was behind her, the morning light brought a new optimism. It was his fault. She had chosen someone too young and inexperienced for her first foray into romance. She would not give up. She finally understood that old saying, "you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince!" She would continue tonguing toads until she found her true prince.
You think I would have learned my lesson with that first kiss. But, stubborn optimism clouded my brain. Or maybe it was the toxins from licking all those frogs that got to my mind and made me hallucinative. The same way I built up that first kiss in my mind, I had erected Eiffel Towers of scenarios for the first sexual experience! The doer of choice had his occasional romantic moments and I thought, given the right atmosphere and scene-setting (are you starting to see the way I think?), the night could be perfect! No back seat fumbling for me! I waited until my parents would be away for the weekend and I had the house to myself! I cleaned my room, lit candles, and had a very sexy nightgown on. Make-up perfected and hair precisely sprayed to withstand any storm, I made the call. He was at the house in less than an hour. I answered the door with the drama of Joan Crawford, only to hear “What? You’re going to sleep? What did you call me for?”
Hello!!!! Seduction!!!! Can’t you see it?????
As I sashayed up to him and planted an extremely well-practiced kiss on him (I was well into the double-digits of frogs, so no problem in the smooching area), which finally gave him a hint of what was to come! We rushed into the bedroom in a clothes-chucking frenzy and fell to the bed in a passionate embrace. Six minutes later, he was making his way to the kitchen with a coke and a smile! I, on the other hand, laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, confused! What the fuck was that? I remember a moment of what I thought was excitement, but it was over way too fast to be sure! Was it good? Was I glowing? Do I suddenly look like a woman?
I went to the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror. My Aqua Net had held out, for the most part, but the back of my head was flat and contained some kind of knot that would take days to get out. My mascara had melted to the point of Psycho Raccoon and what make-up was left on my face had made a shift to the left! My face looked crooked! And, obviously, so was my whole outlook on sex! If this was what all the hype was about, I’d been grossly misled! In fact, I’d been fucked royally for my entire life!
These events were very long time ago, and I have long realized that romance is a work of fiction, created by television, movies, and books! The even harsher reality was that girls were the only ones who watched and read these romance based works. Sex is NEVER the way it is in books or movies. NEVER! Oh, there is good sex. Satisfying, exciting, but never the way we envisioned. You find the rare guy who knows what he’s doing and that can be great, but when I say rare, I mean really rare. Like hitting Megabucks rare.
Some women never find it. Others have only a fleeting momentary brush with it, which is what I had; an "accidental" hook-up, so to speak. Out with a group of friends one night, four of us ended up back at my apartment. My friend, Ro, with a guy that she had been trying to score for a long time, and me with someone who was more of a friend than a potential anything. He was the friend of someone I dated at one time and we had hit it off then, but in a buddy sort of way. Now, here we were, years later, drinking wine and having a great time, when the other couple took off to the spare bedroom. We watched them go, fumbling at each other on the way, and looked at each other. Seconds later, we were in my bedroom and from there it was all a hot, hazy, torrid, smoldering night. We never had actual sex, which made the night all the more hot. He remains, to this day, the single most intense sexual experience of my life. He knew how to kiss, and touch and drive a woman completely wild. I envy the woman who married him, and it is my most fervent hope that he never turned out like every other man in the world, whose main theme is "Slam, bam and never say thank you, ma'am"!
Knowing how unromantic the whole thing can be, it's really no wonder why so many married couples stop having sex. I mean, half the appeal of it was the thrill of the unknown. There is the whole sexual build-up of teasing and the exploration of each other, and, again, the hope that this could be one of those times when you have hit the romance jackpot, but, once you've been together for awhile, all that is a given. There is no mystery anymore. You know each other inside and out. He goes to the bathroom in front of you and doesn't even try to close the door. Farting is not only legal, it's an art form, and, truthfully, once you've had to purchase hemorrhoid cream for someone, the party's over. To his defense, he had to watch me give birth, so I guess we’re even, but, men don’t care. Remember, romance is a non-existent thing to them. They want to be serviced regularly, like your car, but, at least with the car, it’s every 3,000 miles. With men, it’s every night. At least it’s every night in their perfect little world. See, here again is where there is a vast difference, but it’s still the media’s fault. Men watched different things, namely porn. In skin flicks, women are hot, overly willing sluts. They wear Daisy Dukes and no underwear and they are more than willing to go down on her man anywhere, at anytime. In the car? No problem! In the park? Definitely! At a party, in front of all your college buddies? Absolutely, in fact, invite some of them to join us! See… fantasy!
I stopped wearing Daisy Dukes when I was 13, and underwear, with a cotton crotch, is mandatory! I wake up at 6am every morning, argue with a four year old about the importance of Sponge Bob and brushing her teeth. After I wrangle the child into the car and drive 30 minutes to her school and my office, I need a vat of coffee or the first person to say “Good Morning” is going to be saying it to their own colon, because I will have shoved their head up their own ass! After nine hours of dealing with the worst kind of morons, I do the whole thing in reverse. Upon arriving home, laundry has to be done (two words… skid marks??? What’s up with that???), dinner made, child bathed, dishes washed, and put the kid to bed! At 9, or 9:30, I’m done. I can relax and watch some mindless entertainment… television! There is nothing better than vegging out in front of CSI! But, what’s this? My husband has that look on his face. He thinks it’s a sexy, come hither look, but, in actuality, I can’t be sure his eyes are really open. He’s sashaying over to me in tomorrow’s skid marked boxers, fully expecting to have some “romance”! I have to hand it to my husband, he tries! He really tries for the whole “seduction” thing, but he always picks the worst moments! I say, “You know, honey, I’m tired, so, let’s skip the whole foreplay thing and get right to it!” You’d think he’d be happy! NOOOOO!!! He wants the WHOLE EXPERIENCE!
So after a couple of minutes of pseudo-snuggling, I hear The Who singing the intro to CSI… damn, I’m not going to make it unless I kick it into high gear! I extricate myself from his lover’s grasp and flip him over and tell him “Brace yourself, I’m going to blow you like you’ve never been blown before!” He can’t believe his luck! Unbeknownst to him, I have positioned him in the best possible viewing point. I can blow him and catch the beginning of CSI all at the same time! When I feel like he’s at his breaking point and needs to hit it quickly, I really throw a bonus ball at him and suggest the man-loving doggy-style. There has never been a man born that will say no to this position! Again, it is so I can continue my rabid viewing of the show. You see, when we bought the bed with a mirrored headboard, he was full of hoots and hollers about all the good sex viewing he was going to get! Well, it’s being used for viewing all right! My television viewing pleasure!
The fact that I have feigned sleep as to avoid sex is another issue altogether. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that sex is bad, it’s just routine. There are moments when I think it’s going to be great, but then the cat jumps on the bed, or the kid needs a drink of water! It’s all a series of comedic errors to keep me from coming in the presence of another person. Cause sex with myself is always good. It’s when there’s another person involved that throws a wrench into the whole thing! Which is why marriage is only good in theory, but, in practice, it’s just not do-able.
Do you want to hear the truly ironic part of this whole thing though? Knowing that the whole thing is a crock of shit and romance isn't dead, it was never really born, I still dream. Glowing, music filled dreams, where the leading men (sometimes my husband, but usually not) are horribly romantic and attentive and completely knowledgeable in how to fulfill those sweet, sweaty fantasies. Am I a hopeless romantic? If you knew me, you'd say "absolutely not"! But, maybe, just a little, I am.
Either that or completely delusional.
by
Ms. D. Lusional
This article was originally published in December, under the wrong author - mainly because our editors are retarded.
They have all been severely reprimanded, and are currently serving time, editing Carman's submissions.
Our apologies to Ms. D. Lusional.
