AS USUAL — going back through old blogs looking for something in particular, I came across this blog that made me chuckle. Come on and chuckle with me, and we can have a jolly intercourse about our thoughts …
When is a Cherry not a Cherry?
Like an artist loving colors, like a potter loving texture, I love words. I love the written word, the spoken word. I love the English language in all its curly q’s and static punctuation marks. I love reading, I love creative conversations, and, as you know, I love writing.
I’m also such a child when it comes to words.
Take today. I’m entering catalog copy onto the website, and the product is hoes. I chuckle as I type. I wouldn’t have chuckled 15 years ago, but the world of English has changed since I was a young tart. One of my favorite movies is Fred Astaire in The Gay Divorcee. More giggles. Pussy used to mean cat. Cock was a male rooster. Chuckle chuckle. A shaft was a vertical opening or passage through the floors of a building. Jugs held moonshine or water. Laughing with me yet? Now I find myself avoiding those words just because of today’s connotations.
The same is true with reading and writing sex scenes. Now, I’m not a puritan. But as I get older the words just don’t stimulate like they used to. There are lots of books out today where women are ravished and men are studding and the language is as red as bing cherries. I mean, how many erotic positions and sounds can there be? I’m not a prude, but how do you balance sex and love and lust in your blockbuster novel without being embarrassed about every other word?
One way is to write sex scenes that explode without saying one dirty word.
Ever try saying something without saying something? Now, that’s a challenge! Funny thing is, I enjoyed the challenge. Try out this passage from my latest creation:
His sensuality devoured me, sparking a hunger I never knew I had. I was not a virgin, but I might as well have been, as I surrendered to his caresses and his demands. Falling on the feathered bed, his hands found every curve, every fullness of my body, sending electrical currents through me. Currents I almost could not stand. His mouth followed his hands, and I found myself following his lead, my needs exploding into sounds and screams of pure pleasure. When he took me it was if a monster roared above me. Guttural, wild, transcending this plane to another and another. I matched his transcendence, spiraling out of control, the heat from our stones exploding inside of us, inside of each other.
Not one male chicken, not one kitty cat. Not one moonshine container or vertical passage in a building. Normal “words” like hands and mouths and explosions, but nothing is ever really said. Just implied.
I suppose for most it’s a pretty boring passage. The point of using variations of cats and roosters is to get that extra blush that words like kisses and hugs can’t bring. It’s like using swear words when you’re a little kid. You’re not supposed to say them, but every time you do you get that little thrill of being naughty.
And that’s the power of words. One word can launch a thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares. That — is power.
I must admit I do miss some of the old-fashioned words, though. I personally miss — and use — the cat’s meow, groovy, cool, jive, holy mackerel. I’m not going to stop watching The Gay Divorcee just because slang has twisted the words around.
But that’s not going to stop me from giggling every time I type the color buff or cherry.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
,
,
.
.
.
.
