A friendly, intelligent man makes a funny remark, almost for his private benefit. He thinks nobody hears, but I laugh. For a moment shared understanding exhilarates us both; then I go further. I feel a yen to place my hand on his bare thigh, to see what he’s like with no clothes on. I was single for decades, after a brief early marriage, and there were many men like that. What interests me about sex is nothing dangerous, nothing life-changing. It’s like the impulse that sends some women into stores that sell colored floss and kits for making stained-glass pendants—and of course I know that sometimes those women can’t refrain, even when pendants hang in every window, twisting together on their dirty strings, falling and breaking into the shards they once were, maybe killing the cat. Sex has mostly, for me, been less threatening than that, a reasonably healthy pastime, a form of arts and crafts that uses people instead of glass or thread. At length, though, even so delightful a practice as sex begins to feel airlessly limited, a means of expression made clumsy by the need to include bodies as well as talk.
What do You think about Wedding Of The Two-Headed Woman?
