Saturday, February 17, 2007

Fish Heads

Of course there are many, many different kinds of headaches -- certainly, if you had to think about what kind of headache you were having at a given moment, it would be enough to give you another one. My take on it? Let's see... judging from the fish that's been swimming around in my head this past week, I would say that my most recent headache has dorsal fins and a truncated tail: good for maneuverability and short bursts of speed. At the moment, this precocious fish that is my headache whips its tail right behind my left eye and, if it wasn't for the swelling of my lid (from lack of sleep), you might notice the almost imperceptible twitching going on.

In my lifetime, I have had a variety of headaches, from little guppy ones that seem to be breeding and birthing at breakneck speed, to larger, more ferocious hammerhead-types. It's no surprise then that I consider my head a vast ecological habitat for fish in a state of semi-hibernation, that is until something like the flu or my mother-in-law rouses one of the creatures enough to agitate me in the process.

I suppose the most common headache I have is the catfish one. I'm not just talking about its typical burrowing through the muck that is my head, but when the catfish strikes, my senses are heightened, and suddenly I'm ravenous. (Did you know that catfish have over 250,000 taste buds in its entire body?) Yes, the catfish is what an ordinary person might call the "hunger headache." I get this a lot, perhaps because I'm on a perpetual diet and the little kitty just won't have it! It sends me on the prowl for something -- anything! -- to satisfy. Most days, an aspirin will do... at least until dinner time.

Another headache of note is the goldfish. This is the active, I-go-my-way-you-go-yours type of headache. Mainly, the goldfish catches me unawares upon waking after a night of unspeakable acts (and maybe some heavy-duty retching in the drunkard's confessional: Father Toilet Bowl). It's irritating because I go about my day with my head sloshing about two steps behind me. But, like all good fish who know that their sliminess helps them move through water faster, I find that the quickest way to put the goldfish back in hibernation is a plate of grease with a side of something greasier.

Still, there are those days when the stress is so overwhelming, and the medication so ineffective, that the piranhas in my head rise up with their razor-sharp teeth and go on a feeding frenzy! This is the headache that tortures and grips you from all sides. The kind of headache that makes you shun both light and people, prefering to be left alone while your head is turned to mush and you wallow in misery. Yes, it's true: the piranhas nibble unrelentlessly at all those happy thoughts you once had and, for good measure, regurgitate them into unrecognizable bits as if yours were the nastiest tasting happy thoughts they've ever ingested and how dare you think those thoughts were happy to begin with!

I'm happy to report though that most days, the fishies are in delightful hibernation, dreaming of pleasant streams, vast oceans and even flight! I try to keep them that way with a sound diet, a sound mind, and -- you guessed it -- happy thoughts!

Saturday, February 3, 2007

Puerto Viagra

The other day, a friend jokingly asked me if I'd been to Puerto Viagra.
("Get it?" He asked, as though he was the founder of wit) "No." I plainly retorted. "You know what I mean," he insisted. (What -- did he really think I wouldn't get it???) "Well," came my reply. "I hear it can be an arduous four-hour ride. Personally, I prefer quick-getaways." He laughed at this. (I didn't have to ask him if he got it.)

Joking aside, I'm happy to say that I have never felt the need to go to Puerto Viagra. Granted, I don't have the necessary equipment to require viagra, perhaps I should suggest this to my husband?

Still, this little tete-a-tete got me thinking: is sex really that important? Many people say it isn't. Love, respect, commitment, blah-blah-blah. That's what's important. Let's be honest. There is nothing -- NOTHING! -- like good sex. It's pleasurable, sensual, torrid, animal, sweaty, vulnerable, desperate, on and on.

Sex is a delicacy that must be prepared just so and served up sizzling hot. And as any good chef knows, in order for a dish to be appetizing, it needs to appeal to ALL the senses. I wouldn't call a plate of mashed potatoes, cauliflower and sole "exciting", would you? And as a chef, would it be enough to have a customer? Of course not. A really good chef would know how to get that diner to come back for more.

If I were a meal, I would be a five-course fare with a cherry on top! No way will I be delegated to cafeteria, or worse, airplane food! I prepare for passion the same way I would any other worthwhile enterprise: with great care.

First and foremost is the visual appeal. I'm not talking clothes (or lack thereof) here. A little lipstick can go a long way. Nothing says luscious (re: "juicy") the way your lips pout in that oh, so I-need-you-now way. Ever notice how unnerving it is to have a conversation with someone and their eyes are focused on your lips? Try it. You'd be surprised what kind of effect this can have. For the most part, this can ellicit the same sensation as cleavage. Seriously.

Next, of course, is that issue of smell.

When I was younger, I used this perfume called Gucci No. 3. Whenever I went out, boys (I was still young enough then to call them "boys") would swarm all over me like -- well -- like flies! Needless to say, I was so disappointed when Gucci discontinued that fragrance and I have since lost the swarm. But all is not lost. If, like me, you can't quite seem to find just the right perfume, stick to clean. I think clean is just as good. Save the sweat-drenched body odor stuff for after the act when neither you nor your lover can distinguish (or really care) which of you is stinking up the place. The important thing is, smell can overpower, whether it's good or bad so take the time to be clean.

As to sound, admittedly, I am a screamer. I never quite know how my lover responds to this, but as someone who shies away from wild rides like roller coasters, I think sex is the wildest ride I've ever been on and I react to it the same way someone who is in deathly fear for their life does. There have been times though that I've been aware of my not-so-ladylike behavior and have tried to stifle the screams. Still, a moan will escape now and again. Personally, I think it's a good thing. Nothing says "pleasure" the way your gut says it.

For dessert, there's nothing like smooth, soft, velvety skin. Like anything decadent and sinful, if you and your lover decide to feast on each other, there's no more delightful treat than something creamy. Needless to say, I apply creams and lotions as though it were a dying art form and I alone have the power to bring it back!

Finally, the best for last: taste. Sex is bitter, salty, sweet and sour. It tastes like rain, medicine, lemons, chocolate -- it's that sweet-tart good-for-you-yet-oh-so-sinfully-sinfully-bad kind of thing. And you know what's funny, if you're lucky enough to be a connoisseur, you'll be able to discern each and every one of those tastes and indulge guiltlessly.

In this feast we call life, there are few things that can be savored as much as sex. From the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and feel... to the build up of ecstasy and eventual, magnificent, overpowering release! What can be more satisfying?