M.J. Rodgers - Heart Vs. Humbug

Mab’s direct challenge to her would-be critic worked like a dropped stitch in the knitting of Constance Kope’s thoughts. The tiny woman’s faded brown eyes began to water behind her glasses.

“Heavens, no! I don’t wish to discuss—”

“Yes, you’re quite right, Constance,” Mab interrupted. “This is a topic that I can best do justice to, I believe.”

Constance’s breath got caught in her throat and came out in a muffled sneeze through her tiny nostrils. She looked like she still wanted to bark but wasn’t sure at what.

Octavia stifled another chuckle. There was no telling what the feisty, frank and fun Mab Osborne might say next. Octavia’s grandmother was a sturdy five-eight with silver-streaked red hair, bright blue eyes, an even brighter pantsuit and a sense for the dramatic that never failed to delight Octavia and daunt the myriad guests who had appeared with Mab during her forty-year radio career.

Seventy-three-year-old John Winslow, another one of those guests who was currently sitting right next to Octavia in the tiny control room, leaned slightly forward. “Mab, I admit we agreed there were no holds barred in this discussion of ‘What Makes Good Sex in One’s Seventies,’ but don’t you think that eliminating a man’s penis is a trifle severe?”

Mab’s resultant laugh lifted the volume needle to the middle decibels on her radio station’s control board.

Octavia swung her attention to John Winslow’s neat presence and prescient smile. From his perfect diction to the white silk ascot tucked into his open-throat blue dress shirt, John reminded Octavia of one of those fast-disappearing, refined elderly gentlemen who actually knew what courtly dress and manners really meant.

“John, I’m not suggesting that a man’s penis needs to be surgically removed,” Mab said. “What I’m saying is that each one of us—whether we’re twenty-five or ninety-five—must first embrace the right word images in order to receive full enjoyment from any act.”

Seventy-five-year-old Douglas Twitch, Mab’s third and final guest on her “Senior-Sex-Talk” panel, leaned forward to grab the microphone.

“Word images? What in the hell are you talking about?”

Octavia watched Mab gaze calmly at the bushy-headed, rawboned man in the worn, faded jeans and gray-and-white checkered shirt. While Mab’s confident smile and bearing conjured up images of a thoroughbred charging confidently over a racetrack, Douglas Twitch’s beleaguered scowl bore far more resemblance to a plow horse chaffing under the weight of the harness.

“I’m referring to the full spectrum of human sexuality, Douglas,” Mab replied. “All of the important books on the subject never describe men as having penises. And quite correctly, I might add.”

Octavia watched as Constance Kope’s punched-in, Pekingese face colored to match the red Christmas bow that adorned the desk beneath the control panel. John Winslow’s hand covered the smirk spreading over his mouth as he bent his full white head of impeccably groomed hair. Douglas Twitch crossed his arms over his barrel chest as his long, horsey brow dug a deep trough.

Mab’s eyes were resting on Douglas’s long face as the breath shot out of his flared nostrils in short, snorting whinnies.

“Something you wanted to say, Douglas?” she asked.

He grabbed the microphone once again.

“You bet there is. I admit I’m not much of a reader and I never actually got through all the words in my high school biology text, but the pictures were clear enough and nothing on the male human’s torso was left out, woman.” He sent a meaningful glance around the room. “I repeat, nothing.”

He dropped the microphone back onto the control board table as his exclamation point and gave a final satisfied snort of vented spleen.

Mab shrugged her straight shoulders. “But then that was only a biology book, wasn’t it, Douglas?”

Constance’s brow puckered in confusion. “Only a biology book, Mab? What books are you talking about?”

Mab caught Octavia’s eye and winked. That was when Octavia knew that Constance had asked her grandmother the right question.

“Why, romance books, of course, Constance,” Mab replied. “They are the only books that really explore the profound and rich universe of human emotions.”

John leaned forward slightly. “Mab, do I understand you right? Are you saying that in romance books, romantic men don’t engage in intercourse?”

“On the contrary, John. In romance novels, romantic men engage in intercourse quite frequently. And enjoy it tremendously, too, I might add.”

Octavia felt certain Douglas Twitch’s resultant sharp snort registered on some Richter scale as he did his best to scoot his chair away from Mab in the tiny control room. Constance’s sigh dissembled into a reprobation.

John’s smile spread big enough to hurt. “Okay, Mab. I admit I’m stumped. If these romantic men engage in intercourse frequently and enjoy it tremendously and they don’t have penises, what do they use?”

“Why, their pulsing manhoods or hardened desire or—”

“Oh, you’re saying that it’s the word penis that isn’t used in connection with these romantic men?”

Mab’s mischievous eyes twinkled. “Exactly, John. I’m so glad you finally understand.”

John let out an amused chortle at being so intellectually reprimanded. “Well, I do and I don’t, Mab. Aren’t we just dealing with semantics here?”

“Yeah,” Douglas said. “You tell her, John. They’re the same thing.”

Mab shook her head. “No, they are not. Every act in life can be made ordinary or special, depending on how we approach it. The essential part of our approach involves the words we use. Words create the important messages that define our thoughts and feelings for everything.”

John arched a sliver of silver eyebrow. “Care to provide an example of what you mean, Mab?”

“Certainly, John. If I tell you I’m hungry and I’m going to grab something to eat, what image comes to mind?”

“You’re looking for something quick, whatever is handy.”

“Yes, quick and handy. Not very exciting words, are they? But, if, on the other hand, I asked you to dine with me this evening, what images would then come to your mind?”

“Well, I suppose a white tablecloth, candlelight, something special to eat, probably carefully selected.”

“Precisely, John—a beautifully set table offering something carefully selected. Words have lifted the ordinary act of eating into the stimulation of feelings that go beyond the mere satiation of hunger. In place of quick we now have special. In place of handy we now have carefully selected. The act of eating has been transcended into an act of caring and sharing appealing to all the senses. That’s why romantic men never have sex. They make love.”

Douglas squirmed in his chair, his big bony knee slamming into the edge of the control desk in the tiny room. “What in the hell does eating have to do with sex?”

Mab let out a little puff of impatience. “Words, Douglas, images of emotion—where true sensuality and romance come from. Sex is quick and handy. Insignificant. Making love is special and carefully selected. Important. The words we use so clearly create the emotion we anticipate and receive from the act.”

Constance nodded. “Oh, I see. You’re saying that the right words stimulate feelings that go beyond a mere sexual gratification?”

“Exactly, Constance. It’s the stimulation of those other feelings that makes us romantic, transforms an act of physical need into one of emotional fulfillment, and brings out the truly human part of ourselves. The feelings that lead up to and result from doing it are what make the sexual act, or any act, worthwhile.”