Chapel of Inadvertent Joy

The Birds and the Bees

29 The Birds and the Bees When I hit thirteen, the noun between my legs turning into a verb, my father sat me down and said: one day you will have a wife of your own. A man will come—a helpful neighbor knocking while you’re at work perhaps, or a garlicky colleague at an office party, or a lifeguard on a spit of sand— and that man will grip your beloved, perhaps even in your sheets, but that won’t mean you’re weak. Remember our great ancestor, Menelaus, triceps the size of grapefruits, his chest far hairier than that slim-hipped boy who slipped in and swiped his wife, like a calla lily from his lapel. Remember Marcus Aurelius’ words: reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears. No need to launch another Trojan, just because some stallion trotted into her. No need to perish like Pushkin slumped in ice. Begin preparing now. When friends sleep over, let them colonize your bed. Never yell shotgun—the backseat will scrub you down, so years later, when your wife stumbles home 30 with that glazed, seen-god look in her eyes, the sweat of his trigger-happy fingers still greasing the white napkin of her thighs, you can settle into that moment, ask her how it was, if you can witness next time. ...