Almost 10 years ago, a former coworker gave her notice and said she was moving back to Idaho. As we talked, it became clear that she had missed out on many awesome experiences to be had in New England. So a friend of ours joined us on a three-day tour of delights (Northampton, MA; Burlington, VT; and the White Mountains of NH). I think it was well into day two, heading up along 91, that she said, seriously, from the back seat, "Can we stop talking about poo and sex? Please?" I checked the rear view. She was looking out the window and her huge sunglasses covered all hint of emotion, but she meant it. I looked at friend #3, and she looked at me. We winced and said, "No promises."
I haven't changed.
Yesterday, in Portland, I was day drinking with the gals. Some of these gals I don't know so well. Some of them I've known a very long time. Bonding topics? Poo and sex. Well, actually, I think we shared age of first period and someone talked about poison ivy on the vag. And, oddly, it seemed the majority of us were fairly puritanical in our high school years. Maybe that's why we're such dirty broads now?
Driving from the downtown to the rented apartment (after police-sponsored sobriety checks--kidding, I was fine), I looked in the rear view and saw one gal digging through the debris in the back of my car--a Christmas stocking, a dumbbell, and . . . a duster. M: What do you have this in here for? Me: It goes with the French maid outfit back there.
I was kidding, but thus ensued a conversation about role play, during which I openly admitted to playing patient in the past. And, to my shock, appeared to be alone yet highly regarded for such behavior. None of these bitches had done role playing?! I believe that made me mayor of kink in that car at that moment. Sweet.
Blame it on Bukowski. Blame it on Ginsberg. Blame it on any number of excruciatingly honest writers, poets, and madmen who entered my mind during college. But there's something about going to that dark place, the lowest common denominator, that bonds us and makes us choose for ourselves, truly, whether we are comfortable with the people around us. We're animals, after all. Full of instinctive, visceral responses. So, when one of my friends runs into the living room of said rented apartment, pirouettes ungracefully, and farts, it is the instant reaction from the audience that says it all. My friend in the backseat 10 years ago couldn't make eye contact while discussing her disgust of poo. But when my pirouetting friend cut wind last night, we all laughed to tears and applauded. I can't imagine life any other way.