the bedroom philosopher

"I came across an interesting scene today." Joyce, for reasons she would confidently justify to anyone who might ask, is seated on a small sofa in Judy's bedroom, unaroused, flipping through an issue of "W," and wondering whether or not she feels like lighting a cigarette. Judy is in bed, engaging in the latest incarnation of what she has been referring to as "concept love-making" with her boyfriend Calvin.

"I was rescuing Maggie from Caesar's Palace this morning, after a rough night that evidently involved foxy boxing, duct tape and her purse being stolen, and we were passed in the valet line by a very drunk gentleman, wandering slugishly toward the curb."

"Uh-huh." Judy is applying powder to Calvin.

"Along came a Toyota full of portly, giggling, young women: The kind who's only personal expectation on a Saturday morning is to wake up early enough to net a sausage and cheese Croissandwich and then waste as much gas as possible in harassing anyone within a three mile radius of their collective, Best-Friends-Rock!-on-the-ass, one-o'clock tattooing appointment, You know the type.

"So, these bleak, little indicators of the direction things are headed pull up to the wobbling gentleman, roll down a window, and unabashedly request he expose himself. He declines, and when pressed as to what his reason might be, he points out that he is not in the habit of exposing himself to, um, 'fat bitches in Japanese cars.' Following this, the anticipated hand gestures were exchanged, a Thurstbuster was flung and the offending car roared away."

"And the guy," asks Judy.

"Became flatulent and stumbled off into the bushes at the foot of the Venus Triumphant of Sardinia, where he was photographed by an Asian tourist."

"If the little pigs bought American, maybe that sort of thing wouldn't happen to them," Judy suggests, eyeing the ceiling. She and Calvin are reenacting The Red Velvet Swing Affair of Victorian infamy. Calvin is in pantalets and is swinging in a small, cautious way on a pink, hemp macrame hanging precariously from a plant hook. "Very interesting. Listen, I suppose that my preferring you didn't speak isn't going to act as any sort of deterrent, is it?"

"It all, more or less, summed up my ideas about people, you know, folks in general." Joyce is scanning an article on How To Tell When a Cigar Is Just a Cigar. "Stereotypes are actually the most consistent standard by which to pass judgement. People are aware of their perceived place in things, are comfortable, and would, in fact, resent anything that might accidentally cause them to be dynamic for five minutes, attracting a kind of attention from others they're not used to. They all know perfectly well how they come across and, if confronted with it, they will generally claim to not really be that way at all, but they keep on doing whatever it is they do, and they love it. All P.C. bullshit aside, I feel that my theory is important: People are what they seem to be. This could be contradicted occasionally, very occasionally, maybe, but not in my own experience.

The hook slips a bit, releasing a burst of plaster dust and causing Calvin to emit a low wail.

"If your're going to scream, do it like a little bitch," snaps Judy, prompting Calvin to try again in a higher, more enthusiastic key. Judy leans out of bed and pulls a men's opera cloak from a nearby pile of laundry, then rifles for something in a nightstand. "I'm sure you're completely correct, Joyce. By the way, did you do something with my Cliterrific?"

Joyce glance up from her magazine. "I've never deliberately done anything with something that's been on, strapped to or up you, Judy. Besides, they didn't have those in nineteenth century. Stick with the program." Judy's fascination with period sex has been spawned by the latest DVD featuring her favorite adult film star, a castrating black woman by the name of Petit Four Jackson, that she, Calvin and Joyce experienced one evening a few weeks prior. This outing happened to feature the woman in a surprisingly good, if pornographic, adaptation of Henry James, entitled TURNIN' AND SCREWIN", that caused Judy to become smitten with the flavor of the era. Judy is prone to periodic episodes of sycophantic "referencing'" in her sexual routine, especially when it involves something in a Petit Four film, but is not interesting or devoted enough, in Joyce's opinion, to explore anything with much patience or in any particular depth. Invariably, she will drop the whole thing and again be "really into" something she doesn't realize is fairly pedestrian by kink standards, like ball gags or sex with some sort of house pet. Joyce is completely confident in her knowledge of Judy's shtick, and expects that this shift in focal proclivities will occur next Tuesday at around nine in the evening.

"Take Maggie, for instance. Maggie seems to be an idiot." Joyce puts down the magazine and lights a cigarette. "Maggie acts like an idiot, and every gesture and verbilization up to and including her asking in the car this morning whether I knew of a shampoo that could remove adhesive residue without damaging her hair color would indicate that Maggie is, in her innermost Maggieness, an idiot."

"You're preaching cunnilingus to the convent with that one," remarks Judy. "But I don't see that she's indicative of the rest of us."

"Well," sermonizes Joyce. "Let's comment on you. You're also an idiot, but you become a bit more substantial through your manipulative streak and by more than a hint of codependency."

"You're frigid," states Judy.

"And your're reactive," diagnosis Joyce. "And I'm not at all frigid, I'm just a gal on the go."

"Read: Frigid. You sit there, at least two or three times a week, just watching."

"Because you ask me to," Joyce says smugly. "Because you're codependent."

"And you comply."

"Because you're, admittedly, manipulative. Sometimes it's less of a hassle just to humor you," Joyce glances at her watch. "Besides, I need to kill some time before I saunter across the street to Margot's birthday party. The theme is 'Be on time and wear an offensive T-shirt,' so I thought I'd be post-ironic by being late and wearing a nice, regular shirt, although I'm guessing I'll be one-upped by someone who has arrived early and isn't wearing any shirt at all by the time I get there, which will probably be Maggie."

"Margot is an idiot." Judy, who has donned the black opera cape and is wielding a riding crop she has produced from somewhere, seems to be at a loss for something Victorian to do with it.

"Now you're getting it," Joyce says. "Most people are idiots, as well as being incompetent and silly. Although I will say that I was fairly impressed that your actress could manage such complicated dialog in a convincing British acccent and with her mouth full of ghost-dick."

"Petit Four can do it all." Judy begins half-heartedly poking at Calvin's dangling legs. "Margot is having an 'offensive T-shirt'party?"

"Unbeknownst to Margot, I'd wager. But that's what Maggie is telling everyone." Joyce digs beneath the sofa for something new to read and turns up some Pentecostal pamphlets, previously employed during Judy's 'Door to Door Salvation Sex' period brought on by a viewing of 'Petit Four Witnesses Some Hot Action.' It was the most short lived of her experiments: She and Calvin unsuccessfully banged on three or four doors, shouting, 'Good news, fuckers, open up,' when they came upon a lost collie about a block down the street. Fortunately for the dog, it managed to run away within a day or two.

"Grab my Rolodex," requests Judy. "You might have mentioned you were leaving so I could have lined someone else up. Under 'G,' I think."

Joyce flips through the cards. "Would you like all of the Green Bay Packers, or just some of them?"

"Next card," shoots Judy.

"I mean Calvin could handle a few, but, um...'Gash on the Dash...Sending Lewd, Foul-Mouthed Women to Better Neighborhoods Since 2001.'"

"That's the one, have them send over the one that sort of looks like you. They'll know who you mean."

Joyce lifts a horrified eyebrow, "Oh my God! I decidedly will not!"

"Oh, hand me the phone." Judy sighs, She takes the phone and dials. "You're not always here, you know," she mutters while waiting. "Hello, yes...this is Judy."

(Judy who?)

"You know Judy who."

(...[pause]...Oh, fuck, I don't need this tonight...Hey, Gladys!)

"Yes, um, we had a little problem with what Gladys was wearing on her last visit."

(*sigh*--What do you want her wearing?)

"A smile and a glowing sense of self. Your card advertises: 'Naked, Despicable Sluts Brought Right To Your Door.'"

(Yes, well, that implies she's easy, widely disliked, she'll be brought over and will conceivably wind up naked, at your own discretion...)

"And it reads: Naked, Brought. I don't think you want to give me a hard time with this."

(We've had some trouble with our printing people...lady, it's cold out there...)

"And it's a matter which should understandably be taken up with them at once. In the meantime, I want to see a car seat waffle on Gladys's ass, and I'd put a move on, unless you'd care to explore the literal implications of 'Thirty Minutes or Your Next Hand Job Is on Us...'"

(Gladys, strip and get in the car...hurry. No, no the top is broken, leave it alone...oh, shit...)

Judy hangs up.

"You are good, I mean really wonderful at manipulation," offers Joyce.

"I'm not manipulative. And I'm certainly not an idiot."

"Quote one piece of literature that does not include a throaty, animal noise and that you haven't read at least twice in the 'Penthouse Forum,'" Joyce challenges. "I know that you can't. You're 'type' is too busy doing this kind of thing to retain many of life's incidentals. You are what you are. I've figured you out but I can't change you."

"What am I?" asks Calvin.

"An idiot and a pussy," explains Joyce sympathetically. "Who is about to blush and nod in agreement, causing Judy to curse at me."

Calvin blushes and nods.

"Oh, fuck off, Joyce," Judy says with exasperation. "Is there anything else?"

"You're also mechanically inclined and thoughtless." Joyce gestures to an angry looking cylindrical apparatus discarded in a corner. "An advanced examination of your stereotype tells me you blew all of your money on male prostitutes and cognac for the big 'Oscar Wilde Weekend,' and had to resort to making obscene modifcations to the French coffee press I gave you for Christmas in order to re-gift it for Calvin's birthday..."

Judy is stunned, Calvin appears hurt.

"I could get a patent on that thing."

"That's so bogus," mumbles Calvin.

"Hey, Oscar Wilde was part of your present," Judy explains with hostility. "Like you were under the impression Williams-Sonoma made a dick pump. Look, Joyce, if you need to keep talking, read that book to us and let me try to get back into the mood. Just until the hooker gets here, all right? Let's remember what we're here for."

"You've got a naked, freezing woman streaking to you, so to speak, across the city in an open Miata, and you're not manipulative," chuckles Joyce. "Um...'FINGERBANGED: Let's Get Digital' doesn't seem to have much in the way of text..."

"No, that one." Judy points to a large, dusty edition of a Great English Masterwork on the floor.

"You want me to read from that?"

"I just want to hear something that sounds Masterpiece Theatre-ish in the background. Open it and start anywhere."

"Hmm," Joyce takes up the book and begins. "Um, O.K., '...Whereupon, Count Rockhard threw Lady Lascivia onto the piss-soaked hay of the stable floor and attacked the lacing of her corset with razor teeth, in a fury the likes of which the provinces had not beheld since the bloody triumph of Henry II at Hastings. When his greedy, bearded countenance dicovered and devoured her, um, Welsh rarebit, she elicited a cry of, um, 'Mount me, Count! And ride me harder than a horse you don't particularly care for...!"

Judy and Calvin are silent, blinking.

"It really says that?" asks Calvin.

"Well, no. I was just making it seem appropriate."

"Don't try to help, Joyce. Just read."

"Right then." Joyce begins again, "...'Twas a fortnight passed the Assumption Day feast and a fortnight yet before the occasion of Mr. Dillwick's much anticipated, annual return from Wales came round again, when, all but consumed in her constant but pleasingly familiar duties, (familiar enough, I should say! The Dear Old Thing had been at them these two-and-thirty years!) Mrs. Grousesnatch, whilst diligently minding the hissing laundry kettle, chanced to hear the approaching clip of an aged but adequate dog trap, the likes of which must certainly belong to the Vicar Mr. Woollery, who more likely than not, the clever old woman suspected, would be the bearer of a curious message to Pheasantrut Commons, from a certain Miss Quimmy of Lower Sussex..."

*****

An hour passes before Judy orders a halt.

"Stop, my god, just stop," Judy is more frustrated than ever, almost irate. "Where in the hell is my hooker?"

"My money says hypothermic, on the front lawn," suggests Joyce. "Shall I continue?"

"Good Christ, no! You've made me go dry, and, god-forbid, Calvin is actually listening to you. Stop crying, Calvin."

"Does little Vassily recover from the consumptive ague and find happiness with Lord Wemmink?" Calvin asks, tearfully.

"Very temporarily, she inadvertantly gets run down by Lady Duff-Tolliver's carriage on their wedding day."

"Oh no!" Cries Calvin. "That cunt."

"That's it," announces Judy. "It's over. This is too boring." She removes her cape and angrily reflects for a moment before she adds, "This is all your fault, Joyce. I could have been into this until, I don't know, next Tuesday maybe, but you ruined it, you changed everything tonight. Hand me one of those other books, let's see if I can get my pussy wet again."

Joyce is startled by a feeling of influence. She feels important, and it puts her, unexpectedly, in a good mood, "Um, THE BREEDER'S GUIDE TO THE RUSSIAN WOLFHOUND?"

"No, 361 GAGGED BITCHES...here, Calvin, get wet."

The phone rings and Joyce answers. It's Maggie.

"...I'm, like, so embarrassed. This naked chick showed up here, like an hour ago, right? I bummed a tampon, made her climb up and get me down off the buffet and borrowed ten bucks from her before I realized she wasn't you. Are you coming over, or what?"

"Yeah, in a minute, hang on." Joyce lowers the phone. "Maggie is mooching off of your hooker at Margot's party."

"What! What!" shrieks Judy. "Give me the phone...Listen, you simple little pighole: You get my tang over here...NOW! Don't make me stick you idiot!"

Judy hangs up on Maggie's hysterical whimpering. "I may be manipulative, but damn, she's easy."

Joyce is in Judy's closet. She emerges with a T-shirt that reads: 'Pollocks Do It With Keilbasa.' "Can I wear this?"

"Yeah, sure." Judy glares fixedly as Joyce changes. "You think you've got it all figured out?"

"Uh-huh," Joyce beams. "Been swell, as usual. You should come over later, after you're, um, chapped, or whatever." The doorbell rings.

"'...Alida Slade is awfully brilliant, but not as brilliant as she thinks...' Edith Wharton, 'Roman Fever.'" Judy smiles at Joyce. "Get that will you?"

Joyce hesitates, looking at Judy quizzically, then walks to the door, piqued. Outside stands a woman who looks just like her, but bluish and tight nipped.

"I'm frigid," she announces.

"Of course you are, sweetheart," Judy calls triumphantly from the bedroom. "Come on in."

Joyce exits, contradicted.