Sex, Poetry and The Princess of the Romance Languages
In the poetic subtext lies the demeaning dementia of our Words and Times. It's all about sex.
No, my dears, I'm not speaking of loves spurned. I'm talking, rattling the headboards, swinging from the chandeliers freaky circus sex.
If you got your darling back, or if they had never left or died, or switched sides of the plate on you, you'd still be rattling the headboard - with THAT person.
Oh, sure the ache and myriad melancholy that marches in tight formation along side your Desire is requisite, and much time should be spent, cathartically, dealing with said emotions, but sheesh, kids, What I'm Saying Is: If things were good and you were still getting it on = no poetic melancholy.
Hell, I remembered even today, without any REAL poetry, my more than latent desire to be in the midst of wild, passionate love making with a woman continuously speaking a foreign language in my ear. And it can't be Russian, I speak enough of the dreadfully wonderful language that it has simply lost its coitus luster for me.
Now, the bit that got my fewer and farther between synapses firing in this regard was my passing of a trio of French Canadian Women (not a one I'm in the least bit intrigued by) in the midst of a heated conversation about something - In French. Admittedly, my French peaked at or around age seven in Mrs. Jones' Montessori class, so I, again, was lost in a world of soup armed only with a fork.
Ah, French, the Princess of the Romance languages, soft on the ear, flowing and, when wielded properly, far beyond intensely erotic. Well, at least to my undereducated buttocks.
My closest pass to realizing my junk (Chinese, not English) of a dream was at a party, whilst I was still attending Junior College. A woman (I can't remember if she was a French Major, or simply spoke) had become sufficiently inibriated enough to saddle up behind me and press her well-coifed head against mine while I was choosing more music to play (the stereo/sound system is usually the place you'll find me at a social event when I'm feeling uncomfortable).
She began rubbing her nose in my ear and speaking gently, softly some words I imagined were idealized passion of sorts - I was quite certain it had nothing to do with my music selection. I turned toward her and asked her - in English - to kindly continue.
And she did. Until her boyfriend returned, and stood looming in the hallway. They had a roe - in English - which confirmed my worst fears: I was not the first lad to have his interest peaked by this bi-lingual siren. Her "man" had caught her in the act once again and was none too happy.
He never turned his attentions to me - it was as if he pitied me - I lost out again.
