Satire Non-Fiction posted November 20, 2013


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I thought senior citizens had heard it all.

You be the Judge: Vulgar or Not?

by Spitfire

Previously: The Singles Club asked our writing group to present a program of original works. Twelve wannabe authors read their selections to our members to make sure the work was appropriate. I chose a popular poem written three years ago that earned much praise when read at our annual Author’s Night.  (I changed it into a prose piece as that format seemed to fit  the content better. )

A week after the presentation, Charley, who thought the club would love it, e-mailed me that someone who wasn’t even there, heard that my work was vulgar and should have been censored.

You be the judge of one old lady's rant about sex at her age.

                                        The One-Eyed Monster

Lately, my man's been watchin' ads for "The Pill", the one that promises HARD results.

I want to say, "Forget it, I'm sixty-nine. (Don't give me that look. It's an age, not a position.) I'd rather be reading my book.

I don't say it, though. 'Stead I squint 'hind my cataracts at the femme fatale who wants to push this drug on her forty-something male. If HE needs Modern Medicine to extend (pardon the pun) his Pleasure, then she'd better find herself another guy - one as spry as my old man, whose leg is thumping to the rhythm of her voice while his hearing aid 'jaculates its own erotic choice.

"Humph." I think. "In thirty years, she'll suffer arthritic bones and tired hormones. In time, she'll find a novel can be climactic too. And what's more, she won't sweat before, during and after."

I move to the kitchen--clean up tonight's meal of leftover meatloaf, instant mashed potatoes, canned mushy peas. Umm, maybe that's reason enough to make a man feel he needs something better in life. 

I coulda served prime sirloin, artichoke salad, a bottle of Bordeaux, vintage wine. But that kind of dinner takes too much time. Nope, I want to get back to my book and find out who’s the serial sex killer.

Turning away from my jammin’ husband, I bang pots and plates, feed chunks to a hungry disposal to drown out sounds. Yet words leap in the air and overcome. I hear: "doctor", "erection", "four hours".

The disposal and me both skip a beat.

This pill has that kind of power? Viagra can paralyze a man's heat, put him out of commission for hours? Of what use is he then?

He can't carry groceries. He can't mail packages. He can't clean the barbeque and he sure ain't takin' out garbage! That leaves Miss Pretty Face or, in my case, Mrs. Double Chin and Wrinkled Cheeks to scrub the grill, postpone plans, and drive real fast to the emergency room, and what do I say?  "Excuse me. My man's been toting a whopper for the past five and a half hours?

No way!

I march in, shut off the sound and confront my old man. 

"Get them ideas out of yo' head," I say. "In my younger days, I was a slave to your one-eyed monster, lovin' it too, but now kisses will do, and not that swappin' spit stuff. Just your gentle pucker-ups that leave me time to finish my mystery."

He's still staring at the screen.  I shut it off and lower my voice,  "Save your money, honey. Don't go buyin' those fakin' pills."

I leave him and head for a quiet place to read my book.
 



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