Janet Berliner

by Rick Steinberg

Vincent Price once told me that a beautiful woman with no flaws or scars or bad skin/experiences in her life must make a lousy lay.  And as we wandered on through his gallery at East Los Angeles City College he held to the point.

“Who would not want to spend an hour or so aboard a slice of perfection.  It’s a reasonable request; sexual expression is a form of physical adoration, and in these cases you get the additional nymphet born new experience of encounter bi-singular orgasmic pleasure.”

I had to ask.

“Bi-singular orgasmic pleasures,” he explained, “happen when two people are simultaneously brought to a perfumed stickiness caused by ejaculating over the same person.”

The woman in question.

The act sounds great, you begin thinking, until it suddenly dawns on you that, had you been stricken by Edwardian Sexual Mores, the outcome would have been much the same.  The woman involved would have been sexually sated, and thrilled by her own actions as a receptor.

As well as for her actions as a skilled and “penetrating” actor in the post-Victorian bacchanal.

Now Mr. Price quite gallantly took nothing away from this ability to seduce one’s self into a deeply meaningful sexual conquest.  His only regret was that the now limp adherent seemed somehow cheated.

Consider the quandary facing the “man” in Vincent’s situation, the ethical dilemma:

To try and take something less sticky and more emotionally tasty from his efforts, the man is left asking (more in the tone of a carpenter than an ardent lover) “Was I good for you?”

In fearful desperation not “was it good for you?”

A brief silence while she wrestled her left hand from under the covers, rolled a little on to her right . . . biting her lips as she shifted her weight while moaning something between a vibrato and cat’s purr about:

“No, uhhh . . . no, uh Robert –“

“My name is Brian.”

A coy, girlish smile covers the moment as the movement beneath her blanket causes her to stiffen . . . and then slowly release herself into the covert grasp.

Again.

And again.

“Bobby,” she finally says in a voice still hoarse with passion, “without you, well . . .”

“Yeah,” you ask leaning closer at the sight of part of a breast and a slight “something” stain on the blanket . . . down there. “Bobby,” she finishes as her tongue plays widely with her lips, “there’s beer in the fridge while you, uh . . . oh . . . wait for me.”

And before he can reply in anger, surprise, sexual intrigue or sexual abandonment, she is once again deeply involved with her most perfect lover.

Herself.

So where does that leave us writers dedicated more to what the words are about than we are to their perfect dictionary meanings?  Where the look in the eye at the moment of penetration can reveal far more about characters than where the coitus is staged.

A world wherein people – with their never-ending tastes and journeys – acquire a knowledge and a skill at revealing themselves when they most don’t want.  Or that when they do, that perfect coalescing of time, tide, and words reaps from the universe some basic truths about the ultimate intimacy.

Sharing souls, not sweat.

There is more to say here, and at some time in the future, I will share.  But time and tide covered by pain, medications and singular frustrations forces me to abandon it.

For the moment.

For now, I have learned two great truths about literature and sex.  1) When hardcovers fall off a back-shelf in a long darkened bookstore . . . it is etiquette to help clean-up the mess before leaving.  And 2) Be sure to wear a condom on your member, but not your heart.

Next time:  When sex scenes are required, which should actually be written, and which would be better served by a flashback memory to the Mickey Mouse Club; and a slightly disturbing kiss from “a friend of the family.”

Until then . . . Believe, just believe.