February 13, 2004

Herewith, the lyric of the song I wrote for and performed at Worst. Sex. Ever. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever done, but the audience did seem to enjoy it. Words in italics are spoken.

Saturday night,
Home all alone.
Nothing worth watching on television,
So I log on,
Find someone hot,
Write him an e-mail with swift precision.
He says he can host,
I hop on the train,
Hoping he’s not a gnome–
Should have trusted my gut
And stayed at home.

I should have known.
What kind of freak
Chooses “Jim Jones” as his username? He
Opens the door,
Stereo on,
Playing on high all the songs from Fame. He
Says, “Let’s sit and chat.”
Hey, I didn’t join
Men4talknow dot com.
Wish I’d taken the chance
And left for Guam,

‘Cause now he’s
Sawing, sawing, in and out,
With bad technique and no panache.
He doesn’t know what he’s about.
I realize that he doesn’t wash
Behind his ears.
He’s taking years–
Years I could be spending with Jane Austen,
Instead of being lost ‘n’
On a search for love.

He starts to strip,
Showing his flab,
And his tattoo–oh, boy, it’s a bad one.
Then dirty talk.
Gee, this is fun.
He wants my pussy–who knew I had one?
On the dresser, I
See displayed a Log
Cabin membership card.
I am shocked enough
To let down my guard,

So now he’s
Shoving, shoving, out and in,
He grunts, he groans, he’s on a roll.
A drop of sweat hangs from his chin.
I start to translate Billy Joel
Songs into French–
Ignore the stench–
“For The Longest Time” was just prophetic.
I feel so damn pathetic on this search for–

Venez, Virginie, n’hésitez pas.
Vous filles catholiques commencez trop tard.
Ah, mais enfin, cela dépendra du destin.
‘Quoi pas commencer avec moi?
My God, if only the good died young!

What am I doing wrong?
I just want to share a one-bedroom
(In the West Village,
‘Cause I’m retro,
And I think gays should live there)
With a Maltese or two
And a lover who has a real job.
He comes home and kisses me softly,
As I ruffle his hair–

No. That’s okay. Just . . . just put it back in.

And now he’s
Poking, poking, left and right.
God, why have you forsaken me?
That’s it: I won’t put up a fight.
I’ll just accept my misery.
I wasn’t meant
To be content.
Macho here can keep on sweat and straining;
I’ll lie back, uncomplaining
While my will to live is draining
But I won’t give up my search for–

I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re tired! You make me come or I’m gonna rip your fucking head off!

Love!

I was actually reluctant to post this simply because the French, while grammatically correct, is completely unidiomatic. But then I figured, you only live once unless you’re John Travolta, and I’m not, so what the hell.