Every once in a blue moon, I find myself remembering Liz Lamb. Tonight happens to be one of those.

It was the summer of 1977 and I was working a summer job, part-time night shift as a gas station cashier. 11pm to 7 am, Fri and Sat nights, as I recall. It was a pretty quiet gig, but at least I was allowed to listen to the radio and allowed to read while on duty. I don't think I ever nodded off on the job. I also remember spending a lot of my time re-reading a biography of Marc Bolan, whom I had just gotten into.

A lot of the details have gotten sketchy and dubious, but here are some. This one night in late August, right near the start of my shift, this slim pretty redhead comes up to pay for her gas. She's very friendly and outgoing and charming, and somehow we end up talking a fair bit longer than her purchase actually required. The next night, she came back, to buy much less gas, and we talked even longer. Fortunately no other customers came by during these times to interrupt us. And this time, before she goes, she tells me that she'd like to take me out to dinner. So I let her know where to pick me up, we arranged a time during the week, and off she went.

I remember my mom thought this was all rather odd. TBH so did I. But I went.

She took me for a fairly late meal at a local restaurant. I remember we drank Mateus, which I had never had before, and I had a fair bit of it. (At one point I was sitting in a stall in the restroom and I could feel the room turning head over heels.) Then she wanted us to go hang at a friend's place out on the edge of town. We got there, and before we went in we spent a little while necking against her car. At one point I had her bent back onto the hood, my hands wandering over her. When we got in, there were a few guys in the house, Liz was the only girl, and I sat in a corner of a couch, very quiet. As I recall, they were smoking up a bit, which I didn't touch yet. At least there were tunes, which were okay, but TBH I was pretty bored. 

Finally she drove me home, and there was a small good night kiss, but I don't recall anything being said about doing this again. In part, I guess, because we were both set to leave town and go off to school in the very near future, and we both knew that we both knew. So that's really all there was to it.

The main reason I keep thinking about this is just the strangeness of a beautiful stranger asking me out. I mean, to me she looked like the sort of woman who could have anyone she wanted. And I certainly wasn't all that.

And yet she seemed to want me. And yet only sorta. I really don't know what prompted her. And I also wonder when [and how much] she regretted doing it, after all. But yeah, it made me feel attractive for a while, in a way that few events and few people have done, either before or since.

Sometimes I wonder where she is, how she's doing. Whatever happened to her. And does she remember me, and, if so, how. I doubt I will ever know.

I've recently been rereading my novels to A) try and get back in gear for my next one and B) reacquaint myself with characters who are due to reappear. My books are rarely sexually explicit, but last night I was reading what is [so far] my only prolonged [chapter-length] sex scene, and something clicked with me. Something not just about how I write, but how I am.

Sex is something I revere. 

When I describe it, I describe it with reverence and respect. Not meaning coyly, with Victorian euphemisms or whatnot, but with an awareness of the spiritual beauty of its intense physical pleasures. And this got me thinking about how out of touch I feel with my culture at large, at least as it reveals itself to me online, which is where most of my interactions happen these days.

I find it distasteful when other people use childish or silly language to describe sexual things. Some people's sex scenes make me feel like I stepped in something when I read them, just because of their tone. It isn't the sex per se that disturbs me -- I'm not a prude -- but rather the "pearls before swine" disrespect. Similarly, degradation of any sort has no place in sex as far as I'm concerned -- worship is more like what feels natural to me. On a bad day, it even seems to me that saying that sex is "fun" runs the risk of trivializing it. But that's just me.

I'm not saying my way is better, just that I know what works for me and what doesn't. Not saying that people aren't free to like what they like. If people mutually enjoy calling their body parts stupid names or talking to each other like enemies, then so be it. My point is more that I feel so out of touch, all at sea on the ocean of sexuality. I see almost no representation of my perspective from anyone else out there. Is it a generational thing? Is the romantic point of view inherently quieter?

I dunno. But I have no plans to change my slant on it to get in tune with everyone else. I remain a stubborn cuss to the end.

For I forget how many decades now, I've been hearing about how using the images of women to sell commodities objectifies and dehumanizes women, and that this is A Bad Male Thing Our Culture Does.  And “like a good feminist” I have listened to these arguments and given them careful thought.


For many months now, Sharon has gotten into reading romantic fiction [not Harlequins, but rather higher-profile, “more respectable” romance novels]... and I can't help noticing that these books, almost without exception, have a cover picture of a muscular guy with his shirt open or missing -- and most or all of his head runs up off the top edge of the cover.  In other words, he has no face.

And I think about objectification and dehumanization, and realize that these books are marketed to women almost exclusively...  and I can't help but say “Hmmmm...”