Once upon a time, in a land called Miracle Mile, far far away from the San Fernando Valley, I dated a nice Jewish boy. He was born in Odessa Russia and raised in Brooklyn NY. I celebrated Hanukah and Passover with him the way my Catholic family celebrated Easter and Christmas; with minimal prayer and church but lots of great food and booze. We were happy until his evil mother, who didn’t want her only son to marry a slightly older Mexican single mom from East L.A., cast her evil spell on him with money, a Saab and the lure of an apartment back in New York City.
It was during this relationship with “The Russian” as my Pop used to call him, that I discovered the joy of drinking Vodka. I also discovered what a beautiful penis looked like.
The Russian didn’t know the beauty of his penis. It was a good size and a perfect shape and color. It was a little big for my taste and it made intercourse uncomfortable sometimes, but I did love to look at it. I would hold it in my hand, looking at either side of it, tipping it one way and then the other. It was pretty, a soft pink and beige color and the texture was smooth. I’d look at it in broad daylight and say to him “It really is perfect.”
The Russian had an underlying resentment of his penis because his mother waited until he was 12 years old to have him circumcised. He said that he was out of school recovering for a two months. He said it was so painful that he couldn’t move and that it remained sore for a while. My whole body would ache in sympathy when he told me the story which always stemmed from my compliments of his perfect penis. “Why? Why did your mother wait so long to circumcise you?” I would ask. "You're Jewish!" As a mother, I couldn’t comprehend it. I wanted an answer but I now realize that the question was rhetorical. There’s just no good explanation for it. The only thing I could give the situation credit for was that the operation was ultimately a great success.
When I was married I found myself surrounded mostly by other married moms. Now, I find myself surrounded by beautiful single women. Some are moms, some have never been married nor had children. The American novelist James Lane Allen said "We do not attract what we want, but what we are.” So now I spend most of my free time with beautiful single women, some who are going through a break up, and I myself am the same.
Recently, two of my friends and I were home and I mixed up some dirty martinis. We started talking about marriage and sex, relationships and sex, good kissing ("comfortable"), great kissing ("a journey"), sex and divorce ("still hot"), butts, butts while bent over ("they all look the same"), lubricant from a bottle (“why?”), natural lubricant, grandma panties (“gasp!” and "I've done that.") The martinis started to kick in and soon one of my friends started whispering as she described an encounter with a handsome executive whose penis was really small but of good girth. We leaned in to hear her. Searching for words she finally blurted, “It was like a button!”
I may have had some compassion for Mr. Button except he’d not been very nice to my friend and she's lovely, beautiful and hot! The vodka felt like it was swooshing the information through my mind like a huge water park slide. “A button?!!” I replied, looked over at our other friend and she was frowning. I think we both started shaking our heads in the direction of “no” when I went on a rant. “Oh no girl, we gotta use Braille!” Puzzled they looked at me and I closed my eyes and mimicked my hands groping someone else down below. “We gotta read what’s there with our hands…down there!” We all started laughing, a release for me because it’s been a while since I had the opportunity to kiss and read in Braille a new sexy book.
I am happy that I remember what it’s like to make out with a great pair of lips all night, groping and building anticipation. To inhale that special new scent of someone’s face, the awkwardness and then the momentum, to peek at their closed eyes, a perfectly combed hairstyle tousled by exploring fingers. My friends and I agreed that make out sessions are often as good or better than sex itself.
It’s so dirty, martini, talk.