Quiet Sex

Muriel, I do not
Want to have
Quiet sex

I am sick of having quiet sex

I feel like I'm a falling tree
In a forest of sex
And nobody's hearing me
And STOP CRYING IN THE MILK!

YOU'RE RUINING THE MILK!

Why must you drink milk before we have sex?
And why must you call your uncle?
And why must you scrub me down
With a very harsh brush
Before deciding that I am clean enough
To be touched

Our sex life is pretty, Muriel
It is pristine and lovely
And it makes me want to vomit
On myself
On you
On the comforter
In the hammock that we sometimes do it in

By the way, I'm sick of that hammock
And I'm sick of doing it on newspaper
Like we're making arts and crafts

I don't understand your newspaper fetish
Or your Elmer's glue fetish
Or your glitter fetish or--

Dear Christ, Muriel, we really ARE doing arts and crafts, aren't we?

I should have known

You're the only woman I know
Who can ride a man and make a clay pot
At the same time

Is that what's going on?

Are you getting your hobbies down
While we're having sex?

YOU TWISTED BITCH!

NO I WILL NOT BE QUIET!

Despite all of your disgusting proclivities, Muriel
You are horrifically conservative in one department
And THAT is the volume department

Why is it we can dress up like Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland
And then go have sex in random barns along the Vermont countryside
But me yelling out your name
Is too depraved for you?

I could put up with all your other habits
If I could just yell out--

YES! YES! GOD YES!

AT LEAST ONCE, MURIEL!

AT LEAST ONCE!

STOP EATING THAT PAPER CUP!

IT IS NON-EDIBLE!

WHY DID I EVER LEAVE MY THIRD WIFE FOR YOU?

. . . . .

Muriel, when I was a child
I attended a gospel church in the South
Which was rather strange
Because I come from a family of New England atheists

But I think my mother loved the noise
She loved hearing the joyful noise
Thrown up at, what she believed to be, a non-existent Heaven

I loved that noise too, Muriel

When I'm happy I make noise
When I'm ecstatic I like to sing to Not-Quite-Real Jesus
And when I'm with you
All I want to do is tell the world
That I am making love to the most beautiful fourth wife
A man with low expectations could ask for

So please, Muriel

Tell me that the next time we're visiting the Shipwreck Museum
And you start feeling frisky at the Lusitania exhibit
Promise that you'll let me fill those hallowed halls
With the sound of my voice

No more quiet sex, Muriel

There's far too much to talk about