Talking Sex, part II

Talking Sex, part II

I’m devoting December 2008 to a new series, a sex series. I’m talking sex with a variety of volunteers, spanning age, ethnicity and nationality. It’s an international, interdenominational, multigenerational sex yak of sorts.
The idea sprung from the thoughtful mind of Dr. Ingrid Pearcenik, a licensed Los Angeles sex therapist. Pearcenik, who drops the “r” at her clinic and goes by Peacenik (if you’re on the west side of Los Angeles and you’re looking for a healing kind of sex therapy, check out Peacenik’s on Pico), originally suggested, “Why don’t you do a series about sex and how the different generations react to it? You know, the definition of sex changes according to your age. An 18-year-old’s definition is far different than a 90-year-old’s definition. You could interview individuals from different generations. I’m sure it would be fascinating.”
In part I, last week, I interviewed Michael, a 19-year-old college freshman. I ended that interview when Michael’s twin sister, Melanie, walked into the room (on Thanksgiving afternoon, with the courting smells of turkey and stuffing baking in the oven, not to mention the pumpkin pie). This week, rather than offering the interview with Melanie, I’m throwing in a monkey wrench. “What we talk about when we talk about sex” is a fiction. Dr. Pearcenik, or Peacenik if you prefer, calls the story, “A reflection on sexual discomfort, discomfort with the act, discomfort with the talk, discomfort with the ritual. And it comes with a surprise ending. Quite wonderful, actually.”

What we talk about when we talk about sex

I met Linda in a roadside diner just outside of Cheyenne. Linda approached me with a smudge of bleu cheese dressing on her upper lip. “What will you have?” she asked.
     “A coffee,” I said. I had been driving for hours, days, longer. I was just out of college and working the trucking industry. I spent my days and nights on Interstate 80. Reno to Omaha, Omaha to Reno, a never-ending cycle. Like every driver, I chose a series of rest spots, little corners of the highway that I could call my own. Truck drivers aren’t any different than stationary folk. They want familiarity, history with a place, home.
     Linda returned with the coffee. She was about to make conversation when the bell of the short order cook grabbed her attention. My attention went to my empty notebook. I wanted to write. I wanted to tell stories. I didn’t know how. I stared at empty notebook pages. I fidgeted with a pen. I drank coffee. I drove a truck. I figured, someday, the writing would flow.
     Sometime later Linda returned with the coffee pot, individual-sized containers of creamer in her other hand. She dropped a few on my table. “Are you a writer?” she asked.
     “Yes,” I said, uncomfortably. When do you become a writer? After how many stories? After how many books? When does the definition fit? When does the resisting stop?
     I noticed that the bleu cheese smudge was gone.
     “What do you write about?” she asked.
     “I don’t know,” I answered, “the usual stuff.”
     “What?” she said, “like love and death?”
     “Yes,” I answered.
     “Do you write about sex?” she asked.
     “I’m trying,” I answered.
     “What do you write when you write about sex?” she said.
     The question left me stranded. What do you write when you write about sex? Is sex a position, an emotion, a language? Is sex a craving, a hunger, a haunting? Is sex an exertion, a motion, a thought? Is sex a way of watching, a way of being watched? What do we talk about when we talk about sex?
     The late afternoon turned into the evening and a new waitress refilled my coffee cup. “What happened to Linda?” I asked.
     “Shift change,” she said.
     It was sometime later that I noticed the address written on my bill. “Lime Green Trailer Park. Just across the highway.” The penmanship matched the price of coffee and the other writing on the bill.
     A sign graced the entrance to the community. “The Lime Green Trailer Park. Welcome. Drive Slow. Children at play.” I found Linda’s trailer without much trouble. The Lime Green community consisted of a few trailers, a park bench, an open pit for barbecuing, a gravel field with a swing set. Linda’s trailer was not lime green but discolored, rusted over, blotched. Life near the highway had a corroding effect.
     Linda opened the screen door with a nod. She wasn’t surprised to see me. Clearly, she had other guests on occasions such as these.
     Her home was a simple two rooms. No hallway, a counter for a kitchen, a living room, a tiny bedroom. She used the bedroom as a dressing room. There was a desk in there with a mirror attached and all sort of products neatly arranged.
     I sat on a brown corduroy couch, a pullout bed within. We sipped vodka with lime. “Where are you from?” I asked.
     “I hate that question,” she said. “I’m here now. You’re here now. What else is there?”
     I felt uncomfortable. I made conversation. “What do you do when you’re not working?” I asked.
     “I watch the sky,” she said. Linda kept a chair behind her trailer, a plastic lounge. She attached a pillow to the seatback. “The Wyoming sky is the best in the world,” she said. “That’s why I settled here.”
     Linda refilled our drinks. She drank Skyy vodka, from a blue bottle.
     “What do you see up there?” I asked.
     “You name it,” she answered. “Clouds, the moon, dirt, air, a little of everything.” I put a hand in my pocket and fingered the condom package. “UFOs sometimes,” she continued. “Or what look like UFOs. Maybe they’re just airplanes.”
     Linda looked at me in a way that I hadn’t expected. I expected energy, fire. I guess that's what I was feeling, thinking about it now. I expected the dance of sex. Who makes the first move? What starts the affair? A touching of hands? Fingers combing hair? A lunging and lip smacking?
     Linda looked at me in a way that suggested faith. She had a secret to share. “Do you wanna watch?” she asked.
     She pulled an air mattress out from underneath the couch and inflated it and dragged it outside. She brought out sheets, pillows, blankets. We watched the sky for hours.
     Every now and then a shooting star crossed our view. She pointed it out and I followed her finger and the night grew quiet and calm. At some point I noticed that she’d stopped pointing out shooting stars. At some point I noticed the deep exhale of sleep.
     I left then. I had a long stretch of highway in front of me.

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The Gonzo Journalism of Brian Josepher

Talking Sex, part II