I told a friend this morning that I was going to try to stop being one of those embarrassing-to-be-around 50-some-year-old males who too often makes off-color remarks about sex; that I should instead try to -- maybe, finally -- be a grown-up, find other topics for my humor...
Then I showed my friend today’s date on the calendar, grinned, and said: “APRIL FOOLS!!!”
Yes, I’m a political progressive. I listen to NPR, and I even get email from Mother Jones. These traits mean, I guess, that I’m supposed to be what the smart, feminist women I know refer to as an “evolved” male. But, as my man friends know, I’m sometimes not evolved, not above enjoying the occasional, slightly titillating (oh my, that word makes me smile) double entendre or slightly naughty play on words. Why, just yesterday I was poking (see what I mean?) around in my yard with my camera, photographing spring’s blossoms, the season’s over-the-top display of fecundity. Off in the distance I could hear a chorus of thousands of frogs, loudly singing their spring mating songs.
The whole scene seemed to be about fertility, about sex-sex-sex. Yes, there was beauty -- an overabundance of it actually. But, looking at nature through my camera yesterday, my yard seemed to be full of the energy of sex.
I’m not a shy fellow, but I felt I should avert (or should I say pervert?) my eyes.
