Dear C,

Is there anything more nauseating than the sight of a young couple engaged in a Public Display of Affection? I ask, dear C, because I happened upon one yesterday, and almost felt compelled to vomit into my brand new South Moon Under tote bag. As it was, I merely registered my disgust with a few loud ‘tsk, tsks’, but in retrospect, I regret not interceding more. Don’t these youngsters know that kissing is an obnoxius display of narcissism, not a  pleasurable act to be indulged in for hours on end, to the point where lip-chafing and third-degree stubble burn may occur? Or that no matter how enjoyable something once seemed, the moment you have kids it’s guaranteed to seem like a complete waste of time?

Alas, dear C, I fear this generation of young people is a lost cause, choosing the mindless pursuit of pleasure over the invigorating regime of no sex, cold baths and long hours of study by candlelight that we endured. But all is not lost: we still have the minds of our own children to mold and shape in our image. Nothing narcissistic about that now, is there?

Faithfully,

P.

P,

It seems quite likely, dear P, that the next generation has figured out how to have altogether too much sex without producing offspring.  Shocking idea, really, as we were raised to believe that one pleasurable moment should be saddled with years of toil and burden. 

I’ve decided to encourage my own cherubs to take such pleasure wherever it may exist.  This should be enough for them  to pledge a lifetime of celibacy.  Just to be safe, however, dearest P, I encourage you to batten down the hatches.   I have one pre-adolescent cherub ready to emerge from his youthful innocence.  I shudder to think he may take his mother’s advice and lure your own sweet girls into his inexperienced embrace (we really want much older predatory partners for them don’t we?).  Just remember that it’s never too early for Norplant and a basket of condoms by the door would certainly only be admired here in DC. 

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Loath as I am to complain, I’m afraid the time has come to speak up on a matter close to my heart. As someone who’s husband is gainfully employed outside the home, you may not have to struggle with this issue. But for wife of the work-at-home husband, this dilemma is a specter that haunts us daily: namely, when is a good time to have sex? For most mothers of young children, I am sure, the safe answer is never, but for we wowahhs, the problem is compounded by the yawning discrepancy in the perception of the two parties involved. For our husbands, naturally, any time is a good time, but for the wife, of course, no time is convenient, seeing that she generally has her day planned down to the nanosecond with absolutely no time scheduled for fun, let alone multiple orgasms (or showers). And yet, to refuse, as she frequently must, is to spend the entire day consumed by a vague sense of worry about the state of her marriage, while the husband merely shrugs and moves on to Internet porn. The solution, dear C, would seem to be for one of us to go out, get a job, and confine sex to the office, like normal people. But in my case, I fear, this might interfere with shopping – I mean being there for the children, when they get home from school. As for the oldballandchain, I’m not sure he could cope with the bright glare of sunlight, let alone being forced to re-learn all those socialization skills, after so many years in his lair.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

Wasn’t it Betty Friedan who pointed out this very dilemma in The Feminine Mystique?  It is much better, she supposed, to fully emancipate oneself from one’s significant other and never actually have sex as this is the only true way to control the balance of power.  Of course, one might wonder with whom the S.O. is having sex, but you know good feminists can’t be bothered with these insignificant details.  I have instead a adopted a corollary of this promising but problematic theory: using sex as a weapon, I mean, of course, tool, for getting our "mutual" goals accomplished.  And by mutual, I mean, of course, mine.  For a husband who works from home, for example, you might prepare a list of daily chores (helpfully called "work" so as not to confuse the poor lad).  You might hand the list to him while attired in some lingerie (and granny panties don’t count), giving him a hint of what might follow completion of the list.  As we are dealing with men, you might have to spell it out: list done by 1pm, sex today (there’s no need to state the opposite result as we like to keep things positive).  If it all sounds rather daunting in the beginning as you have for so long been giving the milk away for free, don’t worry as, in my experience, men are much like children and their initial whining and tantrums will turn to compliance once your resolve is made clear.  I can’t wait to see the spiffed up homestead, P.  If I don’t see some immediate changes, I won’t blame you, but I may lose some respect.  The women’s studies certificate I earned in college really must count for something.

Faithfully,

C.       

P,

My father, recently visiting, noticed an advertisement for the Vagina Monologues, a well-known stage play.  He suggested the other side needed a shot at glory as well.  I’m not at all certain he had the following in mind:

Penis at 4a.m.:  Wake up!  Wake up!  I gotta go!

Penis at 4:03a.m.: Hey, wonder if the old lady is interested…Hmmm, no response to my repeated pokes.  Does she have to be awake?

Penis at 7:00a.m.: Wife’s awake.  I’ll just keep a low profile and do what I’m told.

Penis at 10:40a.m. (also 1:50p.m., 3:12p.m., well, you get the idea): Cutie pie in my sights.  Wife and kids?  What is that?  I am free and strong and brave and handsome too!  I think the brain agrees–it helps me that all blood flow immediately leaves the cranial area at these moments.  What do you mean she’s not interested?  Hey, did you see that girl over there?  O.k., how about the one on tv?

Penis at 6:00p.m.: Evening with the family.  I’ll just keep a low profile and do what I’m told.

Penis at 10:00p.m.: I’ve been a good boy all day—please, please!  Yes, yes, of course I’ll finish the "honey do" list.  And buy you jewels.  And shoes.  O.k., o.k., I even promise to watch the children for the rest of my sorry existence. 

Penis at 4:00a.m.:  Wake up!   Wake up!  I gotta go!

Repeat previous day endlessly.

Shocking to think there’s no Broadway production yet, isn’t it, dear P?

Faithfully,

C.