How’s that for a title?
My friend wanted me to write about “action” and by that he meant sex. I tried once before and no one read it..not even that friend. So I’m taking another whack at it (see naughty pun right there) even though I admit it’s kind of like asking an NFL player to write about Barbies–seems like someone more experienced and wise in such things would be better.
Maybe he just wants to shame me because he’s jealous of my Zen and chicken writing. I mean if most people had a choice between reading about sex or Zen or chicken behavior they’d most likely choose–shit- I wonder if that’s why my book didn’t sell–never mind let’s not get off track here.
I’m sure he’s legit- just wants to see if I can increase my views on this blog. He probably doesn’t know I’m not well–worldly–(do people say that anymore?). It’s fine. I don’t care if people know I’m not putting myself out there or walking those streets out there or whatever they call it. It’s true I don’t go for a lot of that “action” as he called it. That sounds kind of like a 1970’s pimp phrase though, I mean doesn’t it? No- more like something Arnold would say in one of his movies when he’s wearing some horrible space/robot/super-hero/killer suit and laughing that weird weight lifter laugh with his thick accent..”oh yes–I get many action, you know!”
But I’m no Arnold. It’s been a minute. Although I did ride my bike the other day. I hope that doesn’t count because while I was smiling and breathless as I rode by you, I was totally faking it. I was really thinking about this HBO series I want to see but I don’t have cable. Before I even got home the tires went flat. I don’t know for sure but I think that means neither of us had much fun.
But seriously a friend and I were recently counting out how long it had been, not in weeks or days like cool people in their twenties but like people in their forties and fifties. We weren’t counting even by years or decades but more like eras:
“oh yea that guy..he was a total meat eater..a real dinosaur..you know.. horrible breath but he meant well-brought me a bouquet of trees–very powerful. They say some women are attracted to that. I don’t know, just wasn’t for me.” (okay that’s my attempt at Woody Allen–if you say it in his voice it’s funnier)
You know sex is kind of over rated anyway right? Before I started to write this I did my research. I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover over again. The last time I read it I was in my thirties. Very steamy and sexy, got me all worked up. This time I kept falling asleep and dreaming of farmhouses–I was picking out various chickens to raise–see how hopeless? Anyway, I didn’t seem to notice when I read it before- but this time it was obvious. This story does not end well. It’s really a disaster.
Maybe that’s my problem. I feel like for all that fluttery excitement so many people are chasing throughout their lives-it often doesn’t end well. Between the complicated bio engineering just to make something happen and then all the outfits and wardrobe changes necessary, especially when you get to be a person of a certain age, well who’s got time? I mean couldn’t we just throw on our sweat pants and watch that new HBO show? If you’ve got cable–that’s pretty hot.
Hey don’t get me wrong I applaud the oldsters with their duffel size bag of Viagra and their partners all juiced up on the Jane Fonda diet but I’ve got to catch up on my reading, or my meditation and heaven only knows what the chickens are doing while I’m changing into all those outfits and trying to frolic without hyper extending my knee or something.
Now maybe this is not the “action” column my friend had in mind. I’m feeling like right now no one is thinking..”whew, Julie, that Zen, chicken behavior lady is killin’ me with how sexy her blog is” but maybe I can save this thing from entirely circling the drain. Hold on. Let me think.
Okay. So here’s sexy: being really seen, heard and loved, not the faking it paying attention to get something I want kind of seeing, hearing and loving but the kind when you know the only thing in it for you is it–time with that other person whom you’re actually interested in from thoughts to dreams to toe nails. Knowing we are here-both here- right now in this moment and that’s a total gift. Sharing our tragedies and receiving understanding- stillness-acceptance of being broken and put back together in ten thousand new ways each time it happens. Being held, not sexed, not even cuddled but held like the Universe dropped you through a black hole and you’re still held-still safe.
Knowing there is nothing we can ever do to be ugly because nothing about you could ever be ugly to me-nothing. Not. One. Thing.
Beloved is our name.
Sexy is loving each others mothers.
Super, ultra sexy is picking up after your pet or wiping a child’s nose. With your sleeve.
Porn is bringing coffee just the way I like it with the best, latest thing you read and talking about it.
Or making dinner and doing the dishes.
But the ultimate triple x rated, top shelf stuff is caring about what the other person cares about and listening with real interest however long they want to express.
If you want your partner to go extra crazy–speak in the way they hear and play their favorite music. Art and soul are the same. Do all this and you’re a quarter of the way to steamy, zennie, sexy stuff. There is more but you have to know the secret Zen handshake to hear that.
I think my friend is going to be bummed when I post this–if he even reads it–I failed again in the steamy “action” thing. What can I do? Some people got it and some don’t.