Sometimes, my stupid mouth gets me into trouble…
Let’s just say that self-monitoring is not one of my strengths. Oh, I’ve come a long way, I’m no longer letting my mouth write checks that my ass can’t cash. I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but I no longer let my ass handle my financial affairs, so I’m covered either way. The point that I’m trying to make is this: not everyone appreciates a droll sense of humor. In fact, some people get downright testy. Yeah, my mouth sometimes gets me into trouble…but sometimes, I get lucky.
Sometimes a coincidence is more than a coincidence, sometimes it’s serendipitous…
Okay, I’ll stop with all of the dramatic prose and get to the story, because it is a good one!
As an indie author, marketing and promoting my work has been much more time consuming than actually writing my book. Ugh. I really hate self-promoting…I even hate the phrase ‘self-promotion’. Some authors really take it to the extreme; it’s more like self-love or self-gratification. Yech. I hate the smarminess and back-slapping. I am just really bad at it, I am much better at self-deprecation, or irreverence. Yep, I like irreverence, it suits me.
So anyway, the other day, I was perusing the discussion threads on an indie author forum when I came across one thread asking group members for enlightening discussion topics. Sadly, only one group member had responded to the original question. Looking back, I now realize that his suggestion was both serious and enlightened, however, I barely even glanced at it.
Instead, I suggested that we discuss the “badass pornstache” in his profile picture.
Yes, I was being a bit of a smart-ass, but in my defense… Do I even need to say it? I mean seriously, have you ever seen a more perfect example? I can answer that question for you. No, you have not… and I will tell you why.
When I made my slightly inappropriate suggestion, I assumed the man behind the profile pic was a 20-something hipster trying to be cool by using a retro photo as a profile picture. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that I was wrong, but the word wrong, doesn’t really cover it.
This is an actual photo of author Irving Podolsky, complete with the pornstache that may very well have been the original pornstache. Wha -huh?
This photo of Irving Podolsky, author of Irv’s Odyssey (A Trilogy), was taken in the early 70s, when Irv worked in the porn industry as a film director.
So you’re thinking coincidence, right? Nope, it is much more than a simple coincidence…because that one irreverent suggestion led to a shocking discovery, friendly banter, and professional admiration. That, my friends, is serendipity.
I love literature, I love books and reading, I love words…lots of people do. I would say that lots of people write too, but that would be a gross understatement. Thousands upon thousands of people write and publish every day, some write very well. However, I can count on one hand how many fellow indie authors write with humor, emotion, and purpose. Irv’s Odyssey is not just a story, it is a journey through life as told by a story-teller, with a droll sense of humor…cause nothing else would do. 🙂
So, without further ado… I would now like to present fellow author and new friend, Irving Podolsky:
Well thank you Ms. Lavocat for your kind words. I’m jazzed about this invitation but honestly, I have boredom-fear. I’m afraid when people read why I write what I write, they’ll find it uninteresting and go away. This is just me. Other authors answer your questions and stay sticky. I’m compelled to cut to the chase – SEX.
I like sex. It’s fun and it feels good. But there’s more important reasons why jumping on butts is good for you, assuming the couple (or more) agree to this one tiny rule: STAY REAL.
Even more than real – STAY OPEN – EXPRESS TRUTH.
Okay, okay, too heavy. It’s not fun when it’s about going mental. You’re right, it’s not fun. It’s something else. It’s a connection. And it takes confidence and trust to make that happen.
But you know that. And here’s something else you know. After a while, after the feel-good part cools down, if there’s no connection it’s time for another f**k buddy.
Nothing wrong with that but growing up I was looking for love…and a job. Sound familiar?
I wrote a trilogy about that stuff. It’s titled Irv’s Odyssey, and it starts when my character, Irving Podolsky, graduates UCLA film school and it ends when Irv finds Miss Dreamboat.
(I’m not Irv but I took his name. He’s okay with that.)
Anyway, between 1970 and 1975 our lad encounters many strange jobs, none of which is about making movies. He does however, meet a ton of intriguing people. Some work in porn, some in a mental hospital, some in food service, some in Europe, and some in other dimensions (as in, out-of-body travels).
Is there romance? Kinda. But you won’t find it in most of my sex scenes because when love is kindled between Irv and his Soul Mate their intimacy stays closed. But stick around. Along the way Irv trips into plenty of You want WHAT? sex open to the public.
For this post I chose three scenes from Book One, Lost in a Looking Glass. They’ll give you an idea of how Irv learns about naked girls. My hero is almost a virgin when his story begins, and as I said, his first gig out of school dropped him into directing adult films. Scary. Everyone knew what to do but Irv.
The scene below picks up near the end of a chapter where Irv met, by accident, another porn queen at his friend’s place. Her name is Summer and husband is in jail for dealing weed and male prostitution. She’s lonely of course, and she wants Irv because he’s a nice Jewish boy wanting to do the right thing. Problem is, “right” and “wrong” have turned upside down and Summer needs to explain that.
Irv tells his story in first person. Right now, he’s trying to leave a married woman’s bathroom as he contemplates all the ‘what-if’s.
As I reach for my shirt I see that she’s not taking her eyes off me, nor moving out of the doorway. And I’m thinking, this night was always about sex. And I can’t deny she’s a turn-on. But the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “What about Jake?”
“I told you. He’d understand.”
Maybe he would. And maybe adultery doesn’t count anymore. But honestly, what I’m more concerned about is feeling enough attraction for this girl to override the guilt factor. Suppose my conscience kicks in and decides there’s ‘Potential-damage-down-the-road’ and that warning shuts down my body. I’d come off as a limp dick, which would get back to Rog and Rhetta and maybe Jack at Python, and who knows who else. Worse, I’d get smacked in the face with the cold truth, that I’m still hung up about responsibility when it comes to sex.
But I don’t want to be hung up. I need to go through with this, for my own self confidence. I have to be able to have sex, just for sex, without the inhibitions. Because that’s what people do now. Sport-fucking is in.
Yeah. I’m going for it. I drop my shirt to the floor and take a step closer to her. She reaches for my hand, gently slides her fingers between mine. “Don’t be scared,” she says, “It’s just me.”
It’s dark. I’m lying next to Summer in Rog and Rhetta’s bed. She’s licking my neck. Should I worry about the kids waking up? Don’t think about that. Whooh! Now she’s caressing my face with her soft lips while purring into my ear. How could Jake possibly understand about this? Don’t think about that either. Concentrate on how sexy this is and how you’re feeling down there. Stiff yet? Yeah… So far so good. It’s all good. When was the last time these sheets were changed? Mom changed my sheets once a week. They felt great after a bath. God, her hands know where to go.
She’s whispering. It’s sensuous. I breathe out a… “Yeah?” eyes still closed.
“Will you use my toy?” I open my eyes. A fat, twelve inch black wiener is silhouetted against the ceiling. That’s her toy? Who could compete with that? Only a jack-hammer.
She throws off the covers, hands me that log and rolls onto her tummy, butt in the air. “Turn it on,” she instructs. Oh… There’s a knob on the back. Looks like it moves. I twist it. The thing starts vibrating and buzzing. And ya know what? I feel about as sexy as a vet examining a zebra. But I move it around down there anyway, and she starts moaning and undulating and she’s getting louder and now I’m really afraid she’ll wake her kids. But they don’t come in, and Summer’s eyes roll back, her lips pucker and she grabs the sheets, balling them up in her palms.
Climaxing, or sounding like it, she rolls over, grabs my neck, pulls me down onto her body, rubbing me, jabbing her tongue into my mouth. She tastes like a garlic pizza with cigarette topping, as her hand moves between my legs. I’m getting tight again. Focus! Focus! Block everything else out, including the garlic.
Oh boy. She’s moving her face to where her hand is. Whatever was turned off in me is now turning on. Big time! But like, I’m making it with a married mommy. Is this okay? Yeah. This mom is okay. Really okay? Guess so. And I’m still holding up. All systems ‘GO.’
Relax Podolsky. Concentrate. Let the body take the reward. It’s a gift. No strings attached. I’m not taking. I’m giving. Oh no! Oh no! I’m losing it! She knows it. She’s moving my own hand to her body parts as she rubs me off. “Oh Irv…come inside me. That’s right…that’s right….Oh God! Oh God! Irv, you’re so good! Oh Jesus, yeah! You’re doing it soooo right!”
Oh… Uhh… Concentrate! Let it happen… I’m back! Charged hard. WOW! Fireworks? Well… Not exactly.
How long has it been since my big bang? Or little bang. Four minutes? I’m staring up at the ceiling, with Summer’s head resting on my shoulder. I think she’s asleep. And I’m just grateful I finished the race, limping over the finish line. After that incredible build up, the best I can say about it is – it was…adequate. And now it’s quiet again and lonely again, because I’m lying with a wife I borrowed for the night, on cold sticky sheets.
Yeah…I know. Not the most romantic interlude in literature. But it wasn’t supposed to be. It was what it was, like real life.
Here’s another scene about real life with Beverly Walker. She too is a porn gal, but shy as a daisy. How porn and shyness go together is beyond me, but this is the story that came out and Irv went with it.
His first date with Bev was a total crash and he promised himself never again would he try to make love to an introvert on a dirty couch strewn with cat food while two gals shoot smack in the back room. But Bev got herself another place in the Hollywood Hills and invited Irv up for… Well, you’ll find out.
Walking into the kitchen, I look through the wide doorway into the den. Now this is a place for romance; real leather couches with big fluffy throw pillows, soft lighting, a wine collection, a super sound system wired into the ceiling and a God’s-eye-view of LA. It’s a love nest, where I will soon be melting into Beverly Walker’s luscious breasts, a girl without a single spoken word to share with me. But what the hey, I will get past that. I will communicate through feelings, playing her body like a vintage violin, kindling her passion – building, building, building toward orgasm until we climax in perfect harmony. Or something like that. I hope.
She hands me a Miller out of the fridge and as I follow her into the den, I realize she’s wearing the exact same hot pants and halter she had on the last time. It’s a repeat performance, this time done right. So sitting next to her on the couch, facing Johnny Carson and his monologue on the TV, I get cozy with Beverly Walker. Just past the RCA is the wall of glass and the twinkling city lights far below. What a cool place to make love.
My hand goes over her bare shoulder just as she’s about to light a cigarette. I pull it out of her mouth with my free hand and nudge her down onto the cushions, making this comfortable couch into an even more comfortable bed. We start kissing and my fingers begin their journey, moving under her bra-like thing to her warm soft breasts. And yes, this time, it’s good with Miss Walker. It’s all good; her kissing, the spectacular setting, her sexy mood, the privacy, the footsteps shuffling past us on the other side of the couch…
WHAT?! THERE’S FOOTSTEPS?!
Taking a breath and holding it, I slowly raise my eyes up over the couch arm. There’s a bald guy walking into the kitchen wearing tennis shorts and nothing else. He grabs a beer out of the fridge, turns and heads back to us. I duck, signaling Bev to zip it. I hear his bare feet crossing by, moving down the hall as he hums Raindrops Keep Falling my Head on his way to the bedroom wing. There’s a door close. Game over!
I spring off Bev’s body to stand over her. And in a loud angry whisper, I start the questioning. “Was that the guy who owns this place?!”
“Does he know I’m here?!”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t KNOW!?
“He said I could have friends over.”
“That wasn’t nice.”
“Beverly, what were you thinking? Suppose we were doing it. He would have caught us! Is that a climax for you?
“But you always seem to have sex with people around! What kind of crazy turn-on is that?”
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t know. How can she not know? Doesn’t she think about anything? How can a girl so conflicted be so dense at the same time?
She lights her cigarette, with her attention shifting back to Johnny on the Tonight Show. “Bev, I’m sorry. I think it would be better if I leave now.”
“I’ll just let myself out.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
And that’s how it ended with Beverly Walker. After three “okay’s” I left and never saw her again. But I learned another lesson that night: Some girls, some of them even gorgeous, can only make love when there’s risk involved. Or lying in kitty kibble.
Honestly, there ARE romantic scenes in my books but it won’t be this next one either. Irv has more to learn about life, and especially Sheva Gladstein, the hippy supervisor where he’s currently employed – a locked-down mental hospital for brain damaged kids, ages three to thirty. Yep. Weird. All Irv wants to do is make movies and find that nice Jewish girl.
He sorta found one with Sheva, but the “nice” part is up in the air; ‘cause like I said, where Irv lives now, right and wrong, good and bad, has turned inside out.
On his third night after starting the job, Sheva invited him to her on-campus apartment. Unfortunately Irv just threw up from eating the grub served to the kids and Sheva’s suggesting sex.
Under the shower, I’m still trying to figure that out. What is normal, anyway? Certainly she’s not. What makes her tick? She marries a bi-guy, he turns out to be more gay than straight, and she’s not destroyed about that? Maybe she is, but in denial, submerged in this mental institution. Wonder if she reads Hebrew, been to Israel. Not me. Never had the Jewish urge. Don’t have the urge for sex either. Not one itty-bitty bit. I’d just like to get to know her better. Maybe we can postpone the biology and talk instead. She seems really smart.
Shower’s over, my hair is dry and Sheva’s already in bed, wearing a see-through negligee and grinning like a six year-old waiting for Daddy’s bedtime story. “Hop in!” she bubbles. I don’t hop in. I slide in, slowly, still feeling queasy. “How’d you ever end up here, Sheva?”
Her hand goes to my chest, where she starts rubbing. Without an answer to my question, I’m getting the feeling she’s not up for conversation. And when she unfastens her nighty and takes it off, there’s no doubt about that. Naked now, she quickly gets me that way too, by pulling off my jocks under the sheets. Now back to fondling me, she works her way down to my crotch, fast.
Should we kiss first? My mouth tastes like yesterday’s eggplant. But maybe she’s used to that. Don’t want to come off like a jerk without a heart. I move close to her lips.
“No kissing,” she whispers. “Just fun!”
Fun? With a stomach virus? Wouldn’t a ration of intimacy be a good place to start?
Nope. Sheva’s already in third gear, both hands down there between my legs. Guess that’s the swap for kissing. Which is good, I think. Sheva’s in charge, like she is with the kids on the other side of the wall; caring, but with no deep connection. With us now, it’s just physical, having sensations from the waist down, with lots of panting. Not mine. Hers. And gurgling and sentence fragments which follow, like, “Yeah, that’s good…” And, “More of that. Right there.” And, “Not so hard. Slower.” And between the words, I hear more huffing and puffing. It’s okay, I guess. It’s not corny yet.
What’s this? She’s grabbing my butt, pulling me down hard onto her. Oh boy. I’m a human dildo. Better concentrate or she’ll have nothing to use. She’s breathing faster now. Moving faster. Breathing faster. Humping and pumping faster. Building to the big pay-off. Wow. This is way too speedy for a Jewish girl. It can’t be more than twenty seconds since we started. But she’s charging for the checkered flag, like a drag racer, throwing that last bit juice as she powers over the finish line. And me? I’m the parachute that slows her down after beating the land speed record.
I hear a yelp. Did that come from her? Yes it did. She must have climaxed a second time. Now comes a long sigh. Forget the afterglow, Sheva’s settling into a sleeping position a foot and a half away from me. Guess the ‘fun’ is over, after thirty-one and a half seconds. I’m okay with it, though. Didn’t feel like balling anyway.
“Can we talk for a while?”
She turns over, looking at me through squinting eyes. “I’ve got to be up by six, sweetie.”
“So you don’t want to talk?”
She returns to facing the wall and settles under the sheets.
Okay. Talking isn’t the end all, be all. Before language there was gesture and touching. I feel her warm body near mine and that’s good, because I’m sharing a very personal space with this girl, as she goes into sleep, when she becomes vulnerable, which means she trusts me. I suppose.
It would be nice to feel a connection, some reassurance that she cared, at least for thirty-one and a half seconds. Maybe if I just drop my arm lightly over her shoulder… Yes. Nice. I’ll spread my fingers over her smooth skin close to her breast, let her know I’m here for her, that it wasn’t just a fuck.
“Oh no,” she mumbles. “None of that.”
She takes my hand away and turns back to me. “I’m married.”
“Oh yeah… Sorry.”
I adjust on my left arm, staring at the opposite wall. How should I feel about this? I’m not sure. The way she reminded me about her marriage, I felt like I was in kindergarten being advised why it’s not safe to chase a ball across the road. And that I was a big enough boy to understand that this ‘fun’ thing we did was only about play-sex. Nothing else. It was a quick blip on her radar, without another thought chasing it.
Okay. I didn’t have to come here. Or take the shower and get into this bed with her. What right do I have to feel disappointed? Just the same, it’s amazing how alone you can feel, even when you’re in bed with someone else.
So there you have it – another reason why sex can be the furthest thing from connection. But that’s life and Irv’s Odyssey is about learning more about it. By the time Irv meets the girl of his dreams, he knows what’s real and what isn’t.
That’s what I write about: What’s real and what isn’t, from where I see it. But my reality isn’t yours, which is why God invented the internet. If you’ve got thoughts about my ideas, I’d love to hear about yours.