*This is a fictional conversation that played itself over in my brain at around 3 a.m. It's a discussion on the definition of sex with Charles Dickens as the schoolmaster, and the ff. as his pupils - Cormac Mc Carthy, Jeanette Winterson, Tolkien, Haruki Murakami, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, D.H. Lawrence, J.K. Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, Suzanne Collins and, last AND DEFINITELY the least, E.L. James. *
Charles Dickens : The white afternoon filters through window panes made of glass, illuminating scores of suspended dust in this spacious classroom. There was a day when this kind of light was not even possible, in industrial London, where all one could see is smog, soot and the labored faces of coal miners, chimney sweepers and factory workers. But, alas, in this day and age of Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr, we can enjoy such simple pleasures, like God’s light filtering through the windows. And, while we are on the subject of pleasure…
*writes ‘sex’ on the blackboard; the chalk creaks against the surface, or is that just his 200-year-old fingers?*
Charles Dickens : Class, what is sex?
Cormac Mc Carthy : Sex is thrusting a penis into a vagina. Okay.
Jeanette Winterson : Why is the measure of love loss? Why is the measure of sex pain?
J.R.R. Tolkien : I think I have a 100-page song about Galadriel for that.
All : OH,GOD, NO!
Haruki Murakami : Sex is getting a blow job while she touches herself. Then, you wake up to find a talking cat in her place. Then, she calls you from a phone booth without saying a word and then she disappears forever.
*somewhere in the back of the room, Jane Austen and the Brontes let out a gasp*
Jane Austen : Goodness, me! That is rather unacceptable language in the presence of highborn ladies and a rather perverse predisposition towards intimacy, Mr. Murakami. What kind of bestiality do we speak of here? Surely, something as physically grotesque as intercourse must be treated delicately, hidden upon layers and layers of romance, kept an enigma in meaningful glances, brushing of hands and special afternoon walks between a lady and her own Mr. Darcy. What good are we as literary gems if we cannot make beauty out of something so primitive and ugly?
Brontes : Hear, hear.
D.H. Lawrence : Oh, when will you pull that pointed umbrella up your asses, you little hypocrites? Your characters are as flirtatious and secretly lust-filled as, who’s that face, Lindsay Lohan after one too many drinks at Chateau Marmont. *shakes Murakami’s hand* Kind sir, I am a fan. Can I have your autograph?
*J.K. Rowling raises a hand*
J.K. Rowling : Mr. Dickens, sir, how about the lot of us who cannot introduce sex into our work? Harry, my dear baby, is still…
Stephenie Meyer : Oh, honey! How old is Harry now, about thirty, spawned children out of nowhere and still no sex scene to his name? For chrissakes, my Bella was only sixteen and was already dying to put Edward’s baneyney into her va-jay-jay.
Suzanne Collins : Shit, you’z a genius, Stephenie. *high-fives Meyer* And, I’m starting to think I missed my chance in that cave scene. Peeta and Katniss sexy time caveman style could have been worth millions. MILLIONS! I could have been bestseller in all Amazons, including the real one in Brazil. I could have trumped *looks back at E.L. James* that.
*E.L. James sings*
E.L. James : I whip my whip back and forth! I whip my whip back and forth. Yeah, baby! S,S,S and M,M,M. Nah, nah,nah, come on, Mr. Grey!
*everybody looks at each other, shakes their head in disgust*
J.R.R. Tolkien : Oh, she can sing shit and I can’t sing about how fucking hot Galadriel is. What kind of fucked-up world is this? That’s it, I’m going back to the Shire.
Charles Dickens : This is the reason, the very reason, even in this day and age of beauty, light and freedom, that I would rather stay dead. Class, dismissed!
Jeanette Winterson : If I ever write like her, Cormac, please shoot me in the head.