I’ve been home for about 12 hours. I’ve spent the last week
or so on a lovely island in Portland, Maine, where my mom and I attended the
wedding of a childhood friend, Rachel. While there, Rachel arranged for us to stay
in the home of one of her friends. Miss Judith is a 70 year old hippy who only
wears purple and makes jewelry out of sea glass that she collects from the
coast. The first night, we only met briefly. She seemed nice enough. The next
morning she offers to make us some hot rice cereal with fruit which we happily
accept.
Miss Judith is one of those people that talks nonstop and
frankly, I started to tune her out after a few minutes. Then, I heard a word
that piqued my interest. Did she just say orgasm? I look up from my phone and
watch her busily mixing frozen raspberries into a white mash and turn my ears
back on in time to hear her say, “My granddaughter’s fiancé can’t give her an
orgasm.” Ok, so I must have missed some important segue into this topic. How in
the hell would she know that? That’s weird, even by my standards. She now has
my full attention. She continues, “Actually my daughter called me when she lost
her virginity.” What the hell is she talking about? I become aware that I’m
making that squinty-eyed confused face where my eyebrows touch and my mouth
pulls up on one side. I make a point to relax my face as my brain desperately
searches for a situation in which this conversation could possibly be appropriate.
Miss Judith continues, “Actually both my daughter and granddaughter called me
when they had their first orgasm. My granddaughter had hers with a black woman
and toys.”
A million smart ass remarks file through my mind at warp
speed, but that area of my brain is so over stimulated that it shuts down. I
realize that I have the most unlikely, amazing set up ever imaginable and my
brain has short circuited. I have no response. I have no idea what to do with
that information. I search Judith’s face
for traces of insanity, but only find an open, honesty that further confuses
me. I feel like I might be dreaming and the situation takes on a surreal
quality as I hear my mother say, “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.”
Oh dear
God, please let this be a dream. I imagine having a conversation with my own
grandmother about orgasms and how they might be achieved. I feel a little
nauseous and dizzy like I might pass out. In my mind, the word “vagina” buzzes
through the phone line and penetrates the wrinkled ear of my grandma. For a
split second, I picture my grandmother as a sexual being. I can’t breathe and I
feel like I might find my name on a sexual offender’s list for just thinking
about it. I concentrate on the floral table cloth and silently hope that
breakfast is ready soon. I really need something else to concentrate on. Suddenly
innocuous words like, “ripened fruit” and “honey” have taken on sexual overtones.
I am trapped between the table and wall, but I have to leave. I have to get out
of this situation.
As I stir my cereal, I start singing in my mind, “Be-lieve
it or not, I’m walking on air. I never thought I could feel so free-hee-heeeee.”
I hear Miss Judith still yakking, “He told her that Hispanic
women are notorious for having a difficult time reaching orgasm,”
“FLYING AWAY ON A WING AND A PRAYER!”
My mother interjects, “Sounds to me like it’s HIS problem,
not hers…”
“WHO COULD IT BEEEEEEE? BELIEVE IT OR NOT, IT’S JUST
MEEEEEE!” I’m out of lyrics, so I eat the rest of my breakfast as quickly as
possible and excuse myself to take a shower. For the next few days, I hear, “My
granddaughter called me when she had her first orgasm. It was with a black
woman and toys.” echoing through my brain. I may never be the same.
