In the midst of an unbridled sexual encounter, I lose my head. It falls off and scoots across the bedroom floor, yipping in flagrant disregard for the situation. My partner (the latest “man of my dreams”) is too preoccupied to notice. As it rolls through the open door, I spot a halo-like glow where it connected with my neck. The interior of my head is bright with electrical sparks. It’s an opportunity to discover what’s going on in there, view things from the inside, so to speak. But the damn thing barrels off like a bowling ball down an alley.
I am on all fours in front of a large mirror. My lover (I use this term loosely since we are not in love) is exuberantly pumping away, selfishly–if I must say so–intent on his own pleasure. I’m not sure how to handle the situation. Acquaint him with my dilemma? I cringe at the thought of saying, “Pardon me, but my head has come off. No hard feelings, but I must leave you and go to retrieve it.” For sure, he’d assume I was not having fun and think less of me. Do I therefore wait till he’s finished? I could then slip off the bed, tiptoe out, fetch my head and be back before he caught on. With luck, he’d assume I’d gone to the bathroom, and I would be spared embarrassing explanations. Facing this choice (if “facing” is the appropriate word, considering that my face must, this very moment, be bounding down the stairs), has me both paralyzed and intent upon action.
My lover is a knee-weakening dream of a man. His smile alone (he has gorgeous teeth) triggers shameless lust, and the naked sight of him makes me ache to be crushed under his weight. When he throws me over his shoulder, runs up the stairs, and flings me on the bed, I am lost to the realms of prudent thought. Thought, nonetheless, intrudes at this moment–patently visceral, not cerebral thought. Should I pretend nothing unusual has happened? Suppose he doesn’t find me attractive without my head? Even if he does, medical complications could ensue. My life expectancy could be reduced. I don’t mean reduced by a day or two. I might lose out on a possible fifty years. Without a mouth, I’d have to confront starvation or else the awkwardness of mainlining nutriments. I’d be incapable of speech–a definite drawback for someone who likes to be heard. On the positive side, speechlessness answers one of my questions. Rather than interrupt, I’ll wait till he’s finished before disengaging myself from this clinch.
It’s to wonder how I manage to see without my eyes. Sight through intuition is a possibility. Also, radar beamed through the pores. I won’t belabor the question. I can see. That’s good enough. The same halo-like glow shining at the base of my head twinkles around my neck My ex claimed (among other trumped up rot) that the failure of my head to be screwed on right was the cause of his leaving. A virtuoso of the indelicate remark, he also charged my brains with being located in my ass. He might unwittingly have hit on a valid point. My reasoning powers are intact despite my decapitated state. A look down through my neck might be enlightening. Alas, my lover’s strenuous thrusts make my vision (or intuition, or radar) blur. They also make it double and triple. I speculate on the possibility that I am actually a mechanical woman. If I was, detachable parts would be understandable. A windup key would provide conclusive proof. There may be one between my constantly jostled breasts. That seeming shadow may also be only a shadow. My unreliable vision precludes any certainty.
At last my lover is done, to judge by his jubilant cry. I’m anxious about his reaction to my altered state. He has none. This is not to suggest he is dumbstruck, by any means. He just doesn’t notice. He’s too busy kissing my neck and murmuring inarticulate nonsense. Kisses on my neck generally make me giggle. He neither observes the absence of giggles nor that of my head. What he does, the fool, is fall asleep. Insulting as this is, it allows me to make a genteel exit. I pick his shirt off the floor and wrap myself in it. It covers me adequately enough, and I am off, down the stairs and out into the street.
Predictably, my head is nowhere in sight. The only people around are a lady walking a dog and, further on, a man rummaging through a garbage pail. I’d love to ask them if they’ve seen my head. Of course, I can’t. The lady gives me a disapproving glance in passing and quickly looks away. I fully understand. I too would disapprove of headlessness exhibited in public, were I ignorant of the circumstances. On the other hand, it may be my choice of garb she frowns at. Or my bare feet. One never knows for sure what another is thinking. The man, absorbed in his treasure hunt through the trash, is oblivious to me. But that’s unimportant.
Should I go right or left is the pertinent question. On impulse, I go right. As soon as I get to the corner of the block, I see my runaway head. Perched on a nearby stoop, it is berating two little girls for blowing soap bubbles. Its objection is that this is a waste of time as bubbles are too ephemeral. The laughing girls pay no attention. If it could confront them head on, they’d have more respect. It can’t do that without the rest of me. In truth, my absence demotes it to the point of being looked down upon even by children. The obtuse creature fails to realize that. As soon as it catches sight of me in my flapping shirt, it hops off the stoop. It zig-zags away. It doubles back. It acts as though this is a game of tag. The sight of it traveling face up, face down, face up again on a less than sanitary sidewalk, disgusts me. It will need a good scrubbing once I get it home.
This whole unseemly episode was unnecessary if you ask me. So, the ridiculous thing disapproves of amatory romps with comparative strangers? It derides the value of a quick physical fix? I wouldn’t even argue. All I’d do is point out that sex has multiple functions aside from procreation, physical pleasure, and as an expression of love. There is sex as an antidote to pain, sex fueled by anger or obsession, sex spurred by the need to feel a simple physical connection with another member of the human race. “If you want to dance, you’ll be paying the piper,” my head has loftily predicted. I’m perfectly willing to pay the piper. My objection is to priggish cliches. I tune them out. I refuse to listen. How awful is that? Does it deserve this spiteful retribution? To have popped off my neck and rushed out of the house was an overreaction. Now, it is the one who’ll be dealing with the piper. It zooms about at such a lunatic clip, it can’t circumvent the garbage pail man. Bam, it sails smack into his legs. He looks down, bends, takes it by the hair, and hoists it up. He studies it curiously. I’m formulating my explanation to him as I approach. I’ll start with an apology. Of course, it must be done in mime at which I am not particularly adept. Strategy planning mingles with thoughts of my lover. Has he missed me yet? Will he be ready to play an encore when I get back?
The garbage picker turns my head this way and that in his filthy hands. He can’t seem to make out what it is. The stupid thing winks at him, mistakenly figuring to charm him into letting it go. He shakes it. He holds it to his ear. I suspect it’s whispering insincere promises of an erotic nature. Insincerity, as a means to an end, is acceptable in its pious philosophy. Whatever the case, he shrugs his shoulders, gives it one last mystified glance, drops it back in with the rest of the rubbish, and wanders off. An appropriate end to its indecorous outing. It closes its eyes and feigns sleep when I get to the pail. I’m not mislead. I too lean over, grasp it by the hair, and swing it up. As I flip it over my shoulder, a slice of orange peel falls from its ear. Fine and good. One indignity deserves another.
Unfortunately, since it is my head, I also suffer indignities. The moldy food stench, for instance. The hunch that I now have lice in my hair. A bloody scrape from the pavement on the end of my nose. Before I can decide whether peroxide will suffice or a band-aid is additionally in order, my head launches into a German folk song remembered from childhood. It’s a form of denial, an absurdly transparent way of pretending we have reached some kind of understanding. Far from being mollified, I am in a rage. I would never have waltzed away from it without first asking if it wouldn’t mind. Trust, in considerable quantities, has gone down the drain. Ditto esteem. God knows when and if I’ll get over this. I expect to be counseled ad nauseam about how forgiveness unburdens the soul. In some cases, no doubt, it does. But mine is a special case. I know of no one who has gone through what I just did. Quite frankly, my response to unsolicited advice will be, “Forgiveness? I don’t know what that is.”