Susannah Habecker  © 2009 All Rights Reserved

The Last Orgasm

She once thought it was only a matter of time before you felt her presence, and reached out to hold her close. Oh, if only, she would sigh, night after night. But after so many late evenings of holding onto you as long as she was able, the orgasm left for good. Yes, she left you alone, my love, and, oh, so exposed. Thatís why you became like a house with no furniture, a fireplace with no kindling and no flame. Not even a little flicker is left. Alas. Now you are mere ashes. And perhaps a whiff of smoke.

But what did the orgasm want? you asked once.

The answer: A taste of romance, of course. What else? The experience that causes two people to be linked for a lifetime as they drag one another through the mud like old shoes. This, she assumed, is what humans call love.

 

 

***

My Recipes for Intimate Disasters

One day I just knew. I had a gift. Everyone has at least one, and this one was mine. Some just call me psychic. They want to suggest Iím someone decent, or at least a little bit nice. Iíve even been asked by a major publishing company (Farrar, Straus & Giroux to be precise) to write a book of recipes. I wonít give away my secrets though. And I always warn my clients. My recipes are fail-safe. Like boxed breads, not yet baked, all the ingredients are within. They work like charms. One recipe can cause impotence. Yep. Rest assured your chosen man or woman will never get laid again. Another can make a tiny woman (one of those delicate blondesóyou know the kind) become instantly immense. Still another will cause a prick to catch fire. If you ever see a man with smoke curling between his thighs, youíll know why. Only the right person can put out the flames. And of course there are the popular and familiar recipes for truth serums, sorry powders, and the like, especially designed for those men or women you would like to hear apologize. But none should be taken lightly. I always advise my clients to proceed with caution. Try therapy or poetry or sex first. Or how about sex with a French accent? (Yes, do try the French if you havenít yet. Did you know the French have over 200 words for penis? And 1000 metaphors for breasts? They even sell guidebooks of all the sizes and shapes and festive occasions). Why not see what works best for you. And remember. For the average man or woman, an orgasm, an insight, a little chocolate, even an ordinary box of Whitmanís from the pharmacy, thatís all it really takes. And theyíre all better again. Me? Well, I still write poems on occasion. Or sleep with a man. But I know what I do best. And why and when.

 


***

The Daughter of Standard Oil

I once wrote a poem about a girl who was the daughter of Exxon, meaning her family started the company, only it was Esso back then (remember Put a Tiger in your Tank), but my mother said I should hide her identity. Cover it up. Or at least change the name of the company. I should say instead that she was the daughter of steel or tobacco or Fed Ex. Or the child of Spam or Dinty Moore Stew. That sounds nicer than saying sheís an Exxon baby. Besides, people donít like to be identified like that, and what if it turns out you are wrong? my mother asked. She was right, of course, so I changed the poem and said my friend was the child of neoprene instead of oil and gas. I thought of how my friend, May, once confessed that she was the cousin of Camay soap, White Cloud toilet paper and Bounty, the quicker picker upper, and I used to think my friend, Linda Scott, was a child of Scott Tissues, the first company to put toilet paper on a roll, but it turned out that she was the daughter of Miracle-Gro. My first love, DJ Morton, was the son of Mortonís Frozen Pot Pies, donuts and honey buns. I donít know what happened to DJ, but I still think thereís no kiss like the first one. And DJ had a magic tongue. Of course ConAgra bought Mortonís ages ago, and I canít find a Mortonís honey bun anywhere these days, even though they were the most exquisite buns.

 

 

Nin Andrews
Copyright © 2009  

Nin Andrews is the author of several books including The Book of Orgasms, Why They Grow Wings, MidlifeCrisis with Dick and Jane, and Sleeping with Houdini. Her next book, Southern Comfort, is forthcoming from CavanKerry Press.


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