A More Orgasmic Life

I want to live a more orgasmic life. I came to that conclusion recently.

I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s my age…

I’m chasing highs. Playing music that brings me to euphoric places. Reading authors who make me gasp with delight. Watching movie scenes that take me to the edge…

I want to watch Joaquin Phoenix dance on those motherfucking stairs while Hildur Gudnadottir plays her sexy ass cello… AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN.

ALRIGHT?

I want more of life to taste like zabaglione with whipped cream. And whatever genius thought of putting bacon in ice cream??? I don’t know. But I LIKE it! We need more of that kind of out-of-the-box thinking, people!

Because, you know… I’m not so sure we’re coming back to do this a second time, folks. I think this might be it — this is our turn to flutter, stomp, or crawl across life’s stage. These are the moments, the seconds, minutes, and hours of our lives.

And I am choosing to live more of them on the edge of breathless, chasing that orgasmic feeling.

And yes, I’m going to have sex everyday, at least once (except for those days when my husband and I aren’t talking to each other). GOOD sex. Who the fuck needs bad sex?

I’m taking cues from Dylan, and I am not going anywhere gently, and yeah, I plan to rage against the dying of light. (Man that motherfucker can really string words together.)

I am going to listen to Marianne Faithful’s raspy smoker’s voice singing The Ballad of Lucy Jordan, and it will make me cry, because that song rips my fucking guts out EVERY GODDAMN TIME I HEAR IT.

Probably because it reminds me that life is short, and it’s just too damn easy to let it all pass us by in a haze of folding laundry and unpacking the dishwasher… too easy to watch as our flashes of brilliance and talent trickle down the drain.

“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Fuck, Mary. Good things, I hope. Shit. I’m trying…

Because there will just be more dishes to wash tomorrow. And I will never get these minutes back, and wouldn’t it be better, really, to put in my AirPods and dance to ABBA singing Dancing Queen.

And I know Thomas Mann knew this ache when he wrote about the preciousness of intoxication. Yes, Aschenbach. Fuck soberness! Fuck it all to hell.

I want to watch Natalie Portman dance the final black swan dance and become living art — it IS a fucking orgasm to watch that scene.

“This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame…” Yeah… I agree Jack. It is kind of like that.

I want to stay in this place. I want to ride this feeling. Can’t I? Must I really cook dinner? And pick up kids? Drive to soccer practice? Well, at least I’m going to blast Leonard Cohen growling out Everybody Knows while I fold laundry and wait in traffic.

And I’m going to hold in my head the image of Anthony Quinn as Zorba the Greek dancing on the beach over the wreckage of his dreams, as he makes a masterpiece out of living.

Let me be more like that vision of godliness!