It's so much better on holiday
“I’ve been thinking about really wild sex a lot ever since this whole pregnancy thing came up,” is undeniably one of the best ways I can remember anyone’s ever began a conversation with me. The speaker in question was Maya Guardian, who in the few weeks since we’d recruited her had picked up the sometime-nickname of Mad Maya, or even just Mad, and she kept on earning it.
“No really, Lou. Listen to the songs of sex my man! Ok, so I can see by your troubled face you’re not so sure if I’m in all places together right now, but you must be thinking of Flo, ’cos I’m always in one. But think! If you were gonna get pregnant – no, wait – if you were gonna make somebody pregnant, and you had to live with all that forever, don’t you agree you’d want that particular session of intercourse to be the best ever, the stunning, whipping high point of your carnal career? You know that it’s gonna be a better baby if it’s forged in the fires of a fantastic fuck.”
I couldn’t bring myself to disagree, and I was momentarily impressed by how seamlessly and effortlessly Maya had alliterated her last few sentences. I was throwing clothes into piles according to whether I’d need them on the road trip that seemed increasingly stupid/fascinating, and Maya was smoking a cigar that was at least twice too big for her face writing in the big brown leather book she always carried. Why Maya was sucking a phallic symbol and spurting sex talk all over my room instead of packing herself was admittedly a mystery.
“Actually,” I said, taking a break from considering the cross-country benefits of a bright red parka, “I think I’d just take the brilliant sex and nag Mikey for abortion money. I don’t share Johnny and Soho’s affliction for the Christian Wrong.”
“Affection.”
“You heard me.”
“Fine then, affectation maybe. Thinking about it too hard will no doubt re-align their faith. Although the chances of anyone with any faith in anything thinking too hard engorge me with pessimism.”
Anyone who didn’t know Maya would have thought she had a pocket dictionary/thesaurus glued to the backs of her eyelids the way she talked. It’s impossible to quite capture the constantly surprising and inexplicable way she put words together – you really did have to hear it to understand. In addition, she was blessed, by whatever forces we both lacked faith in, with the kind of contradictory sexually charged yet pure and clean beauty that one associates with the phrase “Earth Goddess”. She was undoubtedly a mad hippy artist, dripping with purples and rags which so naturally matched her flowing darkwood-brown hair. And yet at the same time that hair was never tangled, those clothes never messy, her skin was tanned and perfect. He could easily see why Mikey was a mess for her. I tried to nudge the conversation in Mikey’s direction now, firstly to avoid thinking about babies but mainly because I wanted to know if she even gave the poor guy a chance.
“Michael is burdened by being both devastatingly good looking, and unrepentantly egotistical,” was the hardly enlightening response. “See, I just wish Michael took more time to cultivate his appearance and less time admiring it. Actually, I wish Michael thought I was only just attractive enough, instead of something amazing, so that I could convince him how great I was myself, not from some random impression he’s getting. Finally I wish Mike’d hurry up and fuck my brains out because I’m obviously thinking about it way too much to be healthy and someone has to, especially if we’re gonna be on the road. Preferably without the baby bonus.”
Then with all of that suddenly and clearly out into the open, Maya returned to smoking the log of a cigar and penning thoughts.
“No really, Lou. Listen to the songs of sex my man! Ok, so I can see by your troubled face you’re not so sure if I’m in all places together right now, but you must be thinking of Flo, ’cos I’m always in one. But think! If you were gonna get pregnant – no, wait – if you were gonna make somebody pregnant, and you had to live with all that forever, don’t you agree you’d want that particular session of intercourse to be the best ever, the stunning, whipping high point of your carnal career? You know that it’s gonna be a better baby if it’s forged in the fires of a fantastic fuck.”
I couldn’t bring myself to disagree, and I was momentarily impressed by how seamlessly and effortlessly Maya had alliterated her last few sentences. I was throwing clothes into piles according to whether I’d need them on the road trip that seemed increasingly stupid/fascinating, and Maya was smoking a cigar that was at least twice too big for her face writing in the big brown leather book she always carried. Why Maya was sucking a phallic symbol and spurting sex talk all over my room instead of packing herself was admittedly a mystery.
“Actually,” I said, taking a break from considering the cross-country benefits of a bright red parka, “I think I’d just take the brilliant sex and nag Mikey for abortion money. I don’t share Johnny and Soho’s affliction for the Christian Wrong.”
“Affection.”
“You heard me.”
“Fine then, affectation maybe. Thinking about it too hard will no doubt re-align their faith. Although the chances of anyone with any faith in anything thinking too hard engorge me with pessimism.”
Anyone who didn’t know Maya would have thought she had a pocket dictionary/thesaurus glued to the backs of her eyelids the way she talked. It’s impossible to quite capture the constantly surprising and inexplicable way she put words together – you really did have to hear it to understand. In addition, she was blessed, by whatever forces we both lacked faith in, with the kind of contradictory sexually charged yet pure and clean beauty that one associates with the phrase “Earth Goddess”. She was undoubtedly a mad hippy artist, dripping with purples and rags which so naturally matched her flowing darkwood-brown hair. And yet at the same time that hair was never tangled, those clothes never messy, her skin was tanned and perfect. He could easily see why Mikey was a mess for her. I tried to nudge the conversation in Mikey’s direction now, firstly to avoid thinking about babies but mainly because I wanted to know if she even gave the poor guy a chance.
“Michael is burdened by being both devastatingly good looking, and unrepentantly egotistical,” was the hardly enlightening response. “See, I just wish Michael took more time to cultivate his appearance and less time admiring it. Actually, I wish Michael thought I was only just attractive enough, instead of something amazing, so that I could convince him how great I was myself, not from some random impression he’s getting. Finally I wish Mike’d hurry up and fuck my brains out because I’m obviously thinking about it way too much to be healthy and someone has to, especially if we’re gonna be on the road. Preferably without the baby bonus.”
Then with all of that suddenly and clearly out into the open, Maya returned to smoking the log of a cigar and penning thoughts.
posted by Cal Samson at 5:41 PM
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