I think of a few times I used to sleep with one foot on the floor. I quit doing that in my thirties. I knew a lot of guys in college who wanted nothing more than to "slip out of bed" when they had had their way with a woman; I knew a few women who were like that too. Looking back, I wish I had been more curious, which means I wish I would have been more promiscuous, I suppose. I was never interested in sadomasochism, nor in joining a motorcycle club.
I once knew a young woman whose name was Ida, who was on the staff of the Northridge Reivew, who asked me one afternoon or evening at the Northridge Pub what I thought about anal sex. I can't remember my immediate response but I think I just said, "I've not gone there." She then asked if I needed a ride home. Of course I said, "Sure." She then excused herself and went to use the restroom. Poet Ron Pron,k who was along for the beer, said "Don't do it, Nick! She'll kill you in your sleep."He was serious, which made me laugh. "Where do you get this stuff, Ron?" I asked.
Ida and I went to my apartment in Burbank. I did not act on her suggestion. Thought of it was absurd. I wasn't that far gone. We were talking about something that both of us had some difficulty concentrating on when she said, "I think both of us have something else on our minds."
Carpe deim.
I wish I had seized more, I mean, I wish I had embraced the moment more than I did. I wasn't interested in that other thing, no more than I would have had she asked me to whip her with a belt. Leonard Cohen once said he was attracted to such intense relationships, but never felt comfortable with a woman, which I found surprising.
I was interested in getting to know Ida. We met at school the following day and had lunch, then she said she had to stop by home. I went with her in her little sports car. Her parents owned a mansion off Sunset Boulevard, but I think it was really near Hillcrest Drive in Beverly Hills. All I can remember were these white pillars and all that marble. We pulled into this curcular driveway. I started to get out of the car when Ida said, "Don't even think about it. My mother would have a fit!" I asked her why and she said, "You're Goy." The only reason I knew what that meant was because I had just read "The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz," by Mordecai Richler and only because I had read a collection of his short stories which I enjoyed. I can't remember now what compelled me to read Richter's stories. Anyway, I remained in the car. Ida and I drove away and that was the last time I saw her. It was "finals week" at Cal State Northridge, which was her excuse for not seeing me again. I think I bored her.
My favorite girlfriend, whose name was Linda, had moved to San Diego. It didn't matter, but I didn't fully comprehend why. I would discover years later she was Gay. It explained a lot. We saw countless movies together, enjoyed eating at Cafe Figaro on Melrose Avenue, and attending house concerts. That went on for two years, then she moved to San Diego to attend college because they offered a Bachelor's Degree in Stage Craft. Later, she matriculated to a college in Alaska where she got an Masters in Stage Craft. I never saw her again, but we remain distant friends. She lives in Seattle now, has a desk job doing something wholly unrelated to acting. She likes pickle ball. Ida was a fleeting interest, but a provacative one.
These days I watch a lot of movies and try to read something every day. I've no girlfriend nor any real interest in one, but there were all of those other times. I wish life was not so seemingly complicated. I was never interested in Ida's sexual interests, nor in conquering a friend like an enemy. I had a friend named Pat when I was ten withwhom I went to see the movie, "The Beat Generation" at the Tree Theater in Greensburg, Indiana, in 1959. In the movie there was this character who wore black leather gloves and went around knocking on doors where single women lived whom he had followed them home from some club or bar. It was a long time ago, I have forgotten the plot of the film. On our way home as we walked along the railroad track, I asked Pat what was going on with that guy who wore the black leather gloves. What did he do to those young women who answered the door?
"Are you stupid or what?" asked my friend. "He raped them!"
I asked him to define the word rape.
"That's what your father does to your mother every night," he said.
When I got home my parents were in the backyard talking with my father's sister, Ruth, and her husband, Tommy Land. My mother asked me what movie I had seen. I said, "The Beat Generation." She looked concerned. "What was the movie about," she asked. I said, "I don't know. There was this guy in the movie who raped all of these women."
My father and my uncle and aunt were laughing as my mother pulled me by the ear up the yard toward our house. I can't remember what she said to me.
I agree with Leonard Cohen, sex can sure complicate our lives.
I think of a few times I used to sleep with one foot on the floor. I quit doing that in my thirties. I knew a lot of guys in college who wanted nothing more than to "slip out of bed" when they had had their way with a woman; I knew a few women who were like that too. Looking back, I wish I had been more curious, which means I wish I would have been more promiscuous, I suppose. I was never interested in sadomasochism, nor in joining a motorcycle club.
I once knew a young woman whose name was Ida, who was on the staff of the Northridge Reivew, who asked me one afternoon or evening at the Northridge Pub what I thought about anal sex. I can't remember my immediate response but I think I just said, "I've not gone there." She then asked if I needed a ride home. Of course I said, "Sure." She then excused herself and went to use the restroom. Poet Ron Pron,k who was along for the beer, said "Don't do it, Nick! She'll kill you in your sleep."He was serious, which made me laugh. "Where do you get this stuff, Ron?" I asked.
Ida and I went to my apartment in Burbank. I did not act on her suggestion. Thought of it was absurd. I wasn't that far gone. We were talking about something that both of us had some difficulty concentrating on when she said, "I think both of us have something else on our minds."
Carpe deim.
I wish I had seized more, I mean, I wish I had embraced the moment more than I did. I wasn't interested in that other thing, no more than I would have had she asked me to whip her with a belt. Leonard Cohen once said he was attracted to such intense relationships, but never felt comfortable with a woman, which I found surprising.
I was interested in getting to know Ida. We met at school the following day and had lunch, then she said she had to stop by home. I went with her in her little sports car. Her parents owned a mansion off Sunset Boulevard, but I think it was really near Hillcrest Drive in Beverly Hills. All I can remember were these white pillars and all that marble. We pulled into this curcular driveway. I started to get out of the car when Ida said, "Don't even think about it. My mother would have a fit!" I asked her why and she said, "You're Goy." The only reason I knew what that meant was because I had just read "The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz," by Mordecai Richler and only because I had read a collection of his short stories which I enjoyed. I can't remember now what compelled me to read Richter's stories. Anyway, I remained in the car. Ida and I drove away and that was the last time I saw her. It was "finals week" at Cal State Northridge, which was her excuse for not seeing me again. I think I bored her.
My favorite girlfriend, whose name was Linda, had moved to San Diego. It didn't matter, but I didn't fully comprehend why. I would discover years later she was Gay. It explained a lot. We saw countless movies together, enjoyed eating at Cafe Figaro on Melrose Avenue, and attending house concerts. That went on for two years, then she moved to San Diego to attend college because they offered a Bachelor's Degree in Stage Craft. Later, she matriculated to a college in Alaska where she got an Masters in Stage Craft. I never saw her again, but we remain distant friends. She lives in Seattle now, has a desk job doing something wholly unrelated to acting. She likes pickle ball. Ida was a fleeting interest, but a provacative one.
These days I watch a lot of movies and try to read something every day. I've no girlfriend nor any real interest in one, but there were all of those other times. I wish life was not so seemingly complicated. I was never interested in Ida's sexual interests, nor in conquering a friend like an enemy. I had a friend named Pat when I was ten withwhom I went to see the movie, "The Beat Generation" at the Tree Theater in Greensburg, Indiana, in 1959. In the movie there was this character who wore black leather gloves and went around knocking on doors where single women lived whom he had followed them home from some club or bar. It was a long time ago, I have forgotten the plot of the film. On our way home as we walked along the railroad track, I asked Pat what was going on with that guy who wore the black leather gloves. What did he do to those young women who answered the door?
"Are you stupid or what?" asked my friend. "He raped them!"
I asked him to define the word rape.
"That's what your father does to your mother every night," he said.
When I got home my parents were in the backyard talking with my father's sister, Ruth, and her husband, Tommy Land. My mother asked me what movie I had seen. I said, "The Beat Generation." She looked concerned. "What was the movie about," she asked. I said, "I don't know. There was this guy in the movie who raped all of these women."
My father and my uncle and aunt were laughing as my mother pulled me by the ear up the yard toward our house. I can't remember what she said to me.
I agree with Leonard Cohen, sex can sure complicate our lives.