Shakespeare In Bed

(A quick scene sketch, that's why there's no beginning/ending. Inspired "cute" by  a discussion "smart" about Ayn Rand.)

Charles Dickens would be a boring lover, I decide. I’ve only ever read David Copperfield, but I remember incredible dullness and traditional gender roles, both of which equal lights-off missionary.

“Really?” He hasn’t read any Dickens, so he takes my word for it. “Okay, Sylvia Plath.”

“Totally neurotic, but probably wild too.”

He agrees. “Switch in a moment from on the floor with ten cans of whipped cream to you want to put what where?”

I laugh, but I feel somewhat guilty gossiping this way about someone I see as a kindred spirit, so I change authors again. “Joseph Conrad. I bet he was really smooth.” He hasn’t read Conrad either, and we’re both still a little stuck on Plath’s virgin/whore dichotomy, so I throw in Mary Shelley. “She had to have been crazy.”

“Oh, definitely. Shakespeare.”

“Thought he was way better than he was.”

“Seriously? The guy could get you off by whispering!”

“I don’t know about that. I’m sure he was great at pillow talk, but high expectations almost always disappoint.” I know it’s blasphemy to see Shakespeare as anything less than a stud, but he had to have an ego, and a guy with self-confidence and the linguistic ability to express it has almost no chance to live up to the anticipation he talks up.

“Fine.” There’s a pause while we envision more authors between the sheets. This all started with his observation that Ayn Rand seems preoccupied with hands and violence. He comes up with one before me. “John.”

I’m confused. He quickly clarifies. “Really gentle and attentive. Definitely, because those are the aspects of Jesus he focuses on the most.”

He’s right, but I’m not about to delve into a discussion of the sexual personalities of Biblical figures. My imagination is bizarre and distracting enough in church already. I exhale softly, a substitute for ignoring him, and roll over. The phone, hot with power from the charge cord, burns into my ear. I’ve got one. “O’Henry. Good the first time, but the same thing every time afterwards.”

“Good? Had to be boring and preachy.”

“How much O’Henry have you read? You know he had to have had that one signature move that was great, but overused.”

He describes one, “you mean like that?”

I blush, grinning. “Yeah. But even that would get old after a while. Poe.”

“Oh man. Master of kink.”

“You sure? He seems like the shy type.”

“Those are the ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

“But he married his cousin.”

“Um, case in point.”

“I dunno, he still seems like the type who might want it but wouldn’t have the guts to ask.”

“I’ll give you that, but once things got going…”

My mental image is a modified cask of amontillado. I need a quick subject change. I curse my school for not assigning the Classics – all I can come up with are contemporary authors he hasn’t read, and the conversation lulls into quiet.