By Robert
Levin
September 16th, 2002
During my twenties and thirties, it was my goal
to have sex, at least once, with every physical type of woman on the
planet.
I'd prefer not to hear any shit about this.
Proceeding from the theory that by sleeping with a representative of
every kind of female body, and every category of appearance, I would
come, in effect, to know all women, I believed that such an accomplishment
would be good for my writing.
Okay?
Of course, even to gather only samples from
what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes,
shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable
to Wilt Chamberlain's. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than
slim--and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision--I'd obviously
set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards
that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective,
and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine
will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I'd probably have been at
it much longer.
Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I'm
forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing
more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn't
entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated
and very practical benefit. If my collection of memories isn't as comprehensive
as I'd have wished (if variations on the theme of plainness are more
than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and
Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), mental snapshots of the women
I WAS able to cop are, in their quantity and variety, more than sufficient
to save me the price of a subscription to "Jugs."
And, indeed, I HAVE been left with a story or
two to tell.
Not least for the adventure it amounted to,
a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie
who'd just days before--and for the first time--come to New York from
the Midwest on a month-long vacation.
Standing at a bar I heard the sound, right behind
me, of a sharp quick fart--like a wooden match striking. When I turned
I confronted a sight only the word "humongous" could accurately
depict--a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately
the width of the Great Wall of China.
She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though
taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting
my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I
realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance
to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn't yet scored.
In a brief conversation--during which it occurred
to me that she'd be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds--Peggie
told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career
chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered);
that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production
of "Grease," and that her parents had tragically expired in
a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.
Then she invited me to her hotel room.
(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who
could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in
disbelief.
"That's it," he nudged the customer
slouched in front of him. "Right there--that dude. That's the definition
of drunk.")
At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate
cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete
contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator,
she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don't recall) a
container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size
tub of Velveeta.
Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her
boom box.
Now it's not that I mind Barry Manilow all THAT
much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night's
activities would have been the theme from "Raiders of the Lost
Ark." The thing was--and my insistence that we leave on no more
than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor--I could
not for the life of me find Peggie's vulva. I'd heard that this was
a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat
women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would
have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Peggie's
body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field
of hazards and challenges it presented. I'm speaking of the twisting
climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude
of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees,
obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project
to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number
of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required
time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn't believe how many
deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one
point, when I thought for sure that I'd located and entered the secret
cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I'd inserted myself inside of
what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What's more,
I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently
outlying district of Peggie's anatomy.
You're thinking that I had only myself to blame,
that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I
swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded
like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the
sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew
I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I'd located
Peggie's stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings.
In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with
which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead
of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain,
I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism
I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I
got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage,
and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.
I was at last at the pleasure grove.
Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with
a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself
in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in
the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal
other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived,
however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more.
Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture)
by the astonishing power of Peggie's pelvic motion. It was really disappointing.
Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep
inside myself for a sticktoitiveness that I wasn't at all sure I possessed.
But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed
to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch.
At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more
or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of
a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating
as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.
In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to
herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention),
seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down
with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay
Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across
this picture, I AM in it. That's the top of my head, not a puppy, just
behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her
trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain
in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine
could possibly surpass her night with me.
Having completed my mission and worried she'd
suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and
supportive of her decision.
As I departed though, I did sense, from her
expression, that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her
plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing.
Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions,
so I'll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been
the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that
more likely on her mind was foregoing the chance to discover a new food
group.
What do you think America?
Leave
your comments on the Guestbook!
Robert Levin used
to write for The Village Voice and Rolling Stone, and is the coauthor
and coeditor, respectively, of two collections of essays about rock
and avant garde jazz in the '60s: "Music & Politics" and "Giants of
Black Music."
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