by Ira Nayman
“Umm, Noomi,” Investigator Chumley stated, subduing his joyfulness “have you tried this peach cobbler? It’s amazing!”
“No,” Noomi admitted, and tucked in. It was delicious – she would have to joke with her kitchen more often. She was becoming quite wary of her partner’s surprises, however.
So, naturally, Investigator Chumley said, “Can I tell you something? A…a secret?”
“You’re responsible for the sun going supernova in seven billion years?” Noomi responded, not nearly as lightly as she would have liked.
“My first name?” Investigator Chumley ignored her. “It’s not really Crash. That was just a name I was given by an ex-girlfriend who was a David Cronenberg fan. The moment she put it on her Facebook page, it stuck. You know what my real name is?”
Noomi shook her head.
“Charlemagne. My name is Charlemagne Chumley. Yep. That’s what it is.”
Despite herself, Noomi laughed. Well, it was pretty silly. Charlemagne grinned, then joined in the laughter. He had made himself vulnerable, and he was willing to laugh about it with her. Noomi found that endearing. Loveable, actually.
That was the moment that Noomi decided that, yes, she was going to sleep with Charlemagne “Crash” Chumley that evening. They finished their peach cobbler. They drank non-alcoholic beverages. They kissed. They drank some more. They watched the third remake of When Harry Met Sally (starring Ellen Page and Michael Cera). They kissed some more. One thing led to another – you know how it is. At least, I hope you know how it is; if not, you should really get out less.
And, Noomi and Charlemagne slept together. That is all I am going to write on the subject. No, please save your breath. There will be no florid descriptions of entwined limbs, engorged members or carnal explosions here. Let us be honest: literary depictions of human sexual activity are almost always mind-bogglingly 50 shades of dreadful. You know it’s true. There is a reason that there is an award for the worst description of sex in a novel, but there is no award for the best description of sex in a novel: even the best descriptions are awful. Even the best writers are unable to depict human sexuality in a less than cringeworthy way. Don’t believe me? Listen to the experts:
* * *
Literary Sex Sucks (And, Not In A Good Way)
by FREDERICA VON McTOAST-HYPHEN, Alternate Reality News Service Pop Culture Writer
“Martinatini stroked Colin’s writhing member until it was harder than a Republican Congressman’s heart.” “Lavinia rode Rabbi Gesundheit’s pocket rocket until fireworks clouded her vision and love clouded her thinking.” “Arlechino stroked Enamorata’s breast with all of the gentle compassion he used to wax his car; three hours later, his wrist was so sore he would have to ice it for several days.” “Jeremiah-Jedediah’s penis rose faster than the DOW Industrial Average at the height of the housing bubble; when she saw it, Tina Martina swooned with awe (although low blood sugar may have contributed to her fall).”
Experts agree that literary descriptions of human sexual behaviour are embarrassingly bad.
“I completely agree,” said literary phrenologist Elena Fulton-Meyerwitz, a visiting Lowbright scholar at the University of Wallamalloo, Tokyo. “The last time I read a Martin Amis novel, I couldn’t look at my husband for days! Fortunately, he likes sleeping on the couch.”
“I totally, utterly and completely submissively agree,” added Horatio Octavian Ocelot, English language oncologist, founder of the academic journal So’s Your Mother! and author of 1,000,000 Is Not Enough, 1 Is Too Many: The Social, Moral and Gastro-enteritical Effects of Bad Descriptions Of Getting It On In Literature. “Whenever somebody reads a bad sex scene in a novel, the joy in the world dies just a little bit. Considering how many novels there are in the world, this is a problem on a par with global warming!”
Writers generally approach the creation of sex scenes in one of two ways. Some of the braver souls will try to give a literal description of the act. Most, though, use euphemism or metaphor in whole or in part, without the express written consent of the Commissioner of Baseball.
A literal description of sex is about as arousing as instructions for a model Star ship Enterprise kit. “Simply place –”
“Why the Enterprise?” Ocelot interjected. “Why not the Millennium Falcon?”
Nice try, but we’re not going to get sucked into the middle of a Star Trek / Star Wars pissing match! We’ve done it before, and we can’t afford the dry-cleaning bills. A literal description of sex is about as arousing as instructions for a model Junkers Ju87G-2 Stuka Dive Bomber kit. “Simply place –”
“Why a Junkers Ju87G-2 Stuka Dive Bomber?” Fulton-Meyerwitz interrupted. “Why not a Messerschmitt Me262A-1a?”
OH, FOR CRYING OUT – IT DOESN’T MATTER! WE WERE JUST USING THE DETAIL FOR ILLUSTRATIVE PURPOSES!
Ahem. As we were saying, a literal description of sex is about as arousing as instructions for an unnamed but undoubtedly highly popular model kit. “Simply place Tab A into Slot B. Repeat until glue appears.”
“Or chafing starts,” Fulton-Meyerwitz added.
“Or a new episode of Fringe comes on,” Ocelot added additionally.
As bad as this seems, there are only so many ways you can describe long (let’s be generous) things entering round holes. Thus, the majority of writers use metaphors to describe the various body parts involved in sex, as well as the uses to which they are put.
“Adrianna sucked on Darian’s engorged popsicle stick like it was a barely lit cigar that reminded her of her finger when she accidentally put her hand in the fire and completely lost track of the metaphor.” “Their grunts were louder than a dozen pigs being led to slaughter.” “Mordred’s orgasm was like a thousand suns going supernova. Estrelga’s orgasm, which soon followed, was like 789 suns going supernova. Neither of them was concerned about the new life forms and new civilizations they potentially wiped out by boldly going where no couple had gone before – love makes you selfish that way.” “Alain stroked Evalinda’s train tunnel until it gushed hot, sweet chicken noodle soup.”
So, in summation, writers take something grand and beautiful and that feels better than a thousand birthday cakes (or 237 wedding cakes at today’s exchange rate) and turns it into something completely inhumanly mechanical (where is Henri Bergson when you need him?). Or, they try to find poetic / metaphorical / even religious significance in what is, after all, a basically animal act (where is Christopher Hitchens when you need hi – actually, not having Christopher Hitchens in my bedroom is probably a good thing). The amazing thing is not that there is so much bad sex in literature; it is that occasional written descriptions of human sexuality exist that are not completely embarrassing.
We asked historian Oliver Stone for his perspective on this issue. “Well,” he responded, “I’m not an expert in this field, so what I say may be complete garbage, but I think that most heterosexual love scenes in literature are horrible because most literary writers are homosexuals.”
Stone was, of course, absolutely correct; what he had to say was complete garbage.
* * *
So. You don’t have to take my word for the fact that literary descriptions of human sexuality are terrible: it’s scientific!
Returning to the narrative, a sexual time was had by all. Unfortunately, Noomi found it hard to be responsive, so the experience was less than satisfying for either of them. I’m sorry to have disappointed you (although not as sorry as Noomi was to disappoint herself), but it works out that way sometimes. What do you mean, why? Look at the events leading up to the sexual encounter, and it should be obvious why, despite finding Charlemagne overwhelmingly attractive, Noomi couldn’t be satisfied with him that evening. Jesus begesus – do I have to spell it out for you? What, are you one of the lucky one point three per cent of the population that has never felt guilt AND is not a psychopath? Swear to Nordlinger, it’s true: television is making people stupid!
Chapter Eleven:
Noomi Gets the Ne
ws!
“Good morning!” the headboard enthused.
“Ssssshh!” Charlemagne shushed it.
“Isn’t it a good morning?”
“It’s a great morning. Only, please, say so quietly.”
“Don’t you want everybody to know what a good morning it is?”
“Sure. I just don’t –”
“Mumf umf umf.” Noomi mumfed, barely awake.
“He doesn’t want to wake up Noomi, numbskull.” the foot of the bed chided.
“Don’t you want her to see what a good morning it is?” the headboard insisted.
“SURE! Uhh, sure,” Charlemagne assured the bed. “I just…want her to wake up and discover how good the morning is on her own.”
“Wouldn’t you rather share the goodness of a morning such as this?”
“Oh, for –“ the foot of the bed testily interrupted. “I apologize for the headboard. He can be a little thick. Here, you – watch these 237 movie videos.”
“What? Why…ooooooh. You’re leaving the morning after without saying goodbye.”
“Nooooo,” Charlemagne countered. “I mean, not really. I just have so much work to catch up on…”
“You know, 87 per cent of the movies that depict this kind of behaviour show it in a negative light.”
Noomi stirred. Looking up, she noticed Charlemagne halfway through pulling up his pants (portrayed in 32% of the videos, beaten only by the man buttoning up his shirt in 39% of the videos). “Good morning,” she sleepily said.
“Good morning,” Charlemagne answered.
“It is a good morning!” the headboard said.
The foot of the bed sighed.
“Where you off to?” Noomi, pulling herself into a sitting position, asked.
“I was just…” Charlemagne replied, pulling his pants up and doing up his belt, “about to go to the kitchen to see about making us some breakfast.”
“OH!” the headboard exclaimed. “You were about to do no such thing! You –”
“Before you say another word, watch these 412 movie videos,” the foot of the bed commanded.
“…were about to ask the kitchen to make breakfast for you,” the headboard amended itself mid-sentence.
Noomi laughed. “Yeah,” she agreed, “the kitchen is very possessive. If you so much as look like you’re going to boil an egg, it turns the heat up so high you could melt pavement in there!”
“Good to know,” Charlemagne unenthusiastically stated.
“Go put your order in with the kitchen,” Noomi told him. “I’ll throw some clothes on and meet you out there in a couple of minutes.”
“Oh. Okay,” Charlemagne even less enthusiastically agreed.
So, there they were, sitting at the dining room table, eating pancakes, waffles, eggs over easy, scrambled eggs, hard boiled eggs, eggs Benedict, Eggs Pius, Eggs John Paul, bacon, sausages, grilled cheese sandwiches, blintzes, oatmeal and toast on half a dozen different types of bread with a dozen flavours of jam, marmalade and indeterminate fruit spread. (The oven, thrilled that more than one person would be breakfasting for the first time since Noomi moved in, may have gone a little overboard.)
“So,” Noomi subtly asked, “You gonna tell all the boys about last night?”
Charlemagne nearly choked on his whole wheat toast with berry explosion jam (a spit take would have been more appropriate, but he had never been a fan of that kind of humour). “What would make you think –” he croaked.
“Oh, please,” Noomi pshawed him. “I’ll bet half the investigators on our shift claim they’ve slept with me.”
“Not true!” Charlemagne told her.
“Oh?” Noomi stared at him with a penetrating gaze that made him squirm inside.
“It’s more like a third,” Charlemagne allowed. She’s going to make a brutal interrogator some day, he thought.
“Go ahead. Say whatever you want,” Noomi blithely advised. “It’s not like anybody believes any of that gossip, anyway.”
“Look, what happens between us stays between us,” Charlemagne assured her. “I’m not telling anybody anything.” Because, he added in his head, some of those bozos actually do believe the office gossip. Eeeeewwwwaaaaagh!
“If anybody wants my opinion –” the table started to say.
“No!” Charlemagne responded.
“Thanks, but no,” Noomi added.
“Hmph,” the table sniffed. “I have a lot of experience with morning after discussions. Still, if that’s going to be your attitude, it’s your loss!”
The pair ate in silence for a couple of minutes. Noomi resolved to ask her brother Davros about the dining room table’s extensive experience with morning after discussions.
“So,” Noomi eventually asked, “why did you accept the Authority’s offer?”
“In my home universe, I was a door to door used shoe salesman,” Charlemagne answered. “Oh, it was a glamourous enough career, but the income fluctuated from month to month. This job offered a steady pay check.”
“So,” Noomi, vaguely disappointed, said, “you weren’t attracted by the glamour of interuniversal intrigue?”
Warily, Charlemagne responded, “Not initially. But…I…am…now?”
“Hunh,” Noomi hunhed. After a couple of seconds, she went on: “When the TA recruited you, did you know that you were the 23rd you?”
“Naaw. I didn’t know until six months into the job.”
“How did you find out?”
“Performance review.”
“Performance review?”
“The first time they gave me a review, the Authority compared my work performance to that of previous versions of myself.”
“Oh.” Pause. “How did you do?”
“Third overall. But, it was a highly competitive field, so I was very pleased with the result.”
“Third is nothing to sneeze at,” the table commented. “As long as you know you put your best effort forward and – Noomi, why did you kick one of my legs? I have no sensors down there, you know, so I can’t really feel anything.”
Charlemagne smiled. Noomi basked in the smile’s glow – maybe the evening hadn’t been a total disaster…
* * *
Two days later, Noomi sat at her desk on the fourth floor, looking over reports of strange, anomalous behaviours from other universes that might fit the pattern of events that she was investigating. Charlemagne was standing by the clean socks, panties, bras and other delicates vending machine with three of the interchangeable fire hydrant investigators from the squad; although he seemed serious enough, they were snickering like schoolboys who had just heard a naughty word. Noomi felt like walking up to them, saying, “Boobies!” and walking away, but there was no way that that could make the situation better, so she let the feeling pass.
The phone rang.
“Junior Investigator Noomi Rapier,” she answered.
“Oh, hey, Noomi,” Xenia Zaifman in Data Collection and Interpretation and Technical Support said. If she were any more bubbly, Noomi imagined she would float away on a sea of her own enthusiasm. “This is Xenia Zaifman in Data Collection and Interpretation and Technical Support. We’ve come up with something I think will add a frisson of unintelligibility to your case. May I please speak to Investigator Chumley?”
“Investigator Chumley is…busy at the moment,” Noomi told her. “I’m his partner on the case – you can tell me whatever you were going to tell him.”
“Oh, no dear,” is what Xenia actually told her. “I couldn’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?” Noomi asked.
“Go back and reread pages 38 and 39,” Xenia told her, her sweetness not letting up for a moment.
Noomi was confused. “Pages 38 and 39?”
“Of The Field Manual for Transdimensional Authority Employees, Fifth Edition?”
“Oh, I thought – never mind what I thought. What will I find there?”
“The Ten Demandments, of course. You have heard of them, have you not�
��dear?”
Noomi’s confusion deepened. “Sure. What –”
“Allow me to quote condescendingly,” Xenia told her. Then, quoting condescendingly, she said: “Information is sacred. Not, we hasten to add, in a way that would threaten anybody’s deistic beliefs; more in the sense that it is the lifeblood of the organization. Not, we hasten to add, in a way that would threaten anybody’s medicalistic beliefs, either. Look, we’re trying to tell you that information is really, really, really, really, really important, and that’s five reallys, so you know we’re serious. Treat information with five reallys of respect.”
“I don’t see how –” Noomi started.
Xenia sighed. It was a bubbly sigh – kind of like soda that has just been poured into a glass, but with more melancholy – but it was recognizably a sigh. “I remember the day you were assigned to Data Collection and Interpretation and Technical Support,” she said. “You couldn’t wait to get away. Such disdain for us, for what we do. You weren’t treating us with five reallys of respect. In fact, I don’t think you had any reallys of respect for us at all.”
Noomi shook her head in disbelief. “So, you’re not giving me information I may need to solve my case because I…don’t feel enough reallys for you?”
“That’s about it, un hunh,” Xenia agreed.
“Is there anything I can do to make this right?” Noomi, exasperatedly asked.
“You can remove the tone of exasperation from your voice for a start,” Xenia informed her. “Then, simply admit that Data Collection and Interpretation and Technical Support runs the Transdimensional Authority.”
“No!” Noomi blurted.
“Suit yourself,” Xenia cheerily told her. “Too bad…what we’ve found is pretty tasty…”
“So, tell me!” Noomi insisted.
Xenia whistled innocently.
“Look, this is blackmail!” Noomi accused her. “I will not give in to such crude inter-office political ploys!”
“I admire your principles,” Xenia told her. “Call me back when you’re willing to compromise them.”
