Prudence in Hollywood

I went to a gynecologist last week, which isn't all unusual, except that I'm a man. You see, Prudence insisted I go.

I love women, but I don't understand them. And I certainly don't understand what it is about me that is so attractive to dysfunctional females. Of course, I keep going out with them, which says a lot about me.

I met Prudence at a Hollywood Singles lecture on honorable sexuality. We were the only two people who showed up, so naturally we talked. Prudence was bright and beautiful, with auburn hair and blue-green eyes that seemed to change color according to her mood. She was quick to smile and her lips were full and inviting. But Prudence lived in Hollywood, and my experience has been that Hollywood women are like schnauzers on speed. They don't know where they are going, but they go as fast as they can.

On our second date, Prudence asked me--in this incredibly dramatic, sexy voice--to take her home. When we pulled onto Orange Avenue we saw this street sign that had been altered by vandals to read Slow Adult Children Playing. I thought the sign was quite funny. Prudence, however, didn't laugh. I parked the car and we walked to her front porch. Most people have a doormat that says Welcome. Hers said We'll See About That. I guess I was lucky, because she let me in.

Her bungalow was decorated in early Hollywood struggle. There was a lava lamp that had belonged to her mother, a worn, star-splattered slipcover on her couch, and on the wall, flooded by track lights, hung photos of Tinseltown's most notorious martyrs: Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.

Prudence asked me to have a seat and went to let Chopper, her crosseyed cocker spaniel, out of the bathroom. Chopper raced around the room, bounced onto my lap and started licking me. "Hey, your dog's face is all wet," I said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," Prudence shouted from the bathroom.

"Your dog's all wet," I shouted back.

"Oh, she likes to drink from the toilet," Prudence said cheerfully. "But what can you expect? Astrologically, she's a water sign."

Prudence served herbal tea. She dimmed the lights, kicked off her shoes and snuggled into the star-covered couch, her black V-neck cashmere sweater slipping off one shoulder. She held her cup in both hands and began the conversation with, "When you lick an envelope, do you ever think of Mr. Ed?"

She looked at my blank expression and added, "You know, the talking horse?"

"No," I said. "I've never had that thought."

She moved closer to me on the couch and the heat of her body intensified her perfume. She smelled like a cosmetics department on Christmas Eve and her voice became deeper, more provocative. "I love being a woman," she said, breathing heavily. "I even love my period. Once a month it's like my body becomes a self-cleaning oven."

"Well," I said, "that's a marketable concept if I've ever heard one."

She laughed and set her teacup on the table. She leaned toward me until I could feel her breath in my ear, then whispered, "Would it turn you on if I talked baby talk to you?"

I turned and looked into her eyes. Beads of sweat rolled between my shoulder blades. I took a deep breath and said, "Yes, but only if you promise to change my diaper."

Prudence laughed again. "I think I like you," she said and kissed my cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the couch. I pressed my lips against her neck. Her skin was moist and warm and I could feel the blood pulsing through her. I kissed her neck softly and slowly. She moaned and shifted her weight against me. We kissed. Soft, sweet, dry kisses quickly escalated into a perverse, addictive, slobbering exchange. The world began to spin faster and faster and our hands began to roam. And that is when Chopper jumped back onto the couch and buried her freshly soaked snout in my crotch.

I shouted and Prudence burst out laughing. She got up, scolded her dog and brought me a towel. She sat next to me and watched me mop my trousers.

"I really like you," she said, lowering her voice and fondling my ear with her little finger. "And I think I'd like for us to get a lot closer."

I stopped mopping my trousers long enough to agree. She continued to fondle my ear.

"But there's a little problem," she purred and arched her shoulders in a subtle gesture that made it seem like she was pushing her breasts toward my face. "You see, I haven't made love with a man in more than a year."

I tried to act cool and unaffected, but it was hopeless. My eyes widened, my pulse raced and my palms began to sweat. "I understand," I stammered. "It's been a long time for me too."

Prudence placed her hand on my knee and squeezed gently. She leaned back into the cushions and explained that if our relationship was going to progress past kissing on the couch, I had to go see her doctor.

I sat up and cocked my head. "You want me to see your shrink?"

"No, silly, I want you to be examined by my gynecologist. I want to make sure that we're safe. I know how naughty boys can be."

It was a reasonable request, and it made me feel like I could trust Prudence not to stab me in my sleep if I ever spent the night. After all, she was bright, beautiful and a great kisser. And about as sane as a Hollywood woman can be. This wasn't mere lust. I knew, in a weird sort of way, that I was beginning to care for her. I thought Prudence was worth the investment, so I agreed to see her doctor.

There were nine women in the waiting room of the Hollywood Hills ObGyn Clinic when I arrived. They all looked at me, crossed their legs and turned their heads like they were part of some synchronized feminist drill team. I did not feel welcome. After announcing my arrival, I sat down in a corner and buried my face in a six-month-old copy of New Woman magazine and hoped the waiting-room women would appreciate my attempt at understanding. Fortunately, I had the next appointment.

I was called into an inner office and introduced to Dr. Gertrude, a large German woman with a serious demeanor and a noticeable absence of facial hair. With clipboard in hand she crossed her arms and inquired forthrightly, "So, you want to have intercourse with Prudence?"

"Well," I said, "I'm considering it."

Dr. Gertrude opened a door and showed me into the examination room. I stopped and stared in disbelief. There, under the brightest lights imaginable, was the throne of humiliation.

"Do I have to put my feet in the stirrups?" I asked.

"That won't be necessary, young man. You are quite accessible." Dr. Gertrude swung the stirrups out of the way and instructed me to remove my pants, lie down and relax.

When a strange woman wearing latex gloves is examining you with a magnifying glass, relaxation is virtually impossible. But I tried. Dr. Gertrude was very efficient, so I didn't have to try for long. She asked about my sexual history, took a blood sample and, without ceremony, snapped off her gloves and told me I would have the results in two days. I pulled on my pants, paid the $150 fee and waved a fond farewell to the women in the waiting room.

Prudence and I had agreed not to see each other until I knew the test results. Those 48 hours were difficult, but, of course, I passed the exam with flying colors. I called Prudence and told her I was on my way over. It was late afternoon, the birds were singing and I was in the mood for some wild romance. I drove to Orange Avenue with lustful, Technicolor images of Hoover Dam bursting in my brain.

Prudence greeted me at the door fresh from the shower, a short silk robe clinging to her body. But her mood was dark. She agreed to lock Chopper in the bathroom and we sat down on the couch. I told her the good news, but her expression did not change. She reached out and held my hand.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "I thought you'd be excited."

"I don't know how to say this."

"Come on, I've been to your gynecologist. You can tell me anything."

"It's difficult, because I'm certain I really like you." Prudence straightened her back and squared her shoulders. "But I've changed my mind."

My eyes crossed. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I just have a real hard time, you know, mixing sex and love."

"So," I pleaded, "can't you hate me until we get better acquainted?"

"But I want to get married and have children."

"That's a great idea. Why don't we work on our technique?" I was begging now. "If you want, just consider me a vibrator who listens."

She laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. "You're sweet," she said. "But I can't explain it. This is the way things are for me with men." She wouldn't budge, no tears, nothing. She just sat there holding my hand and staring at the undulating green ooze in her mother's lava lamp.

It was obvious there would be no biological breakthrough. We sat on her couch in silence. It was an awkward silence that meandered around the frayed edges of our misunderstanding, but we were sharing the silence and that was a good start.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked.

"About what?" she said. "Love or sex?"

"Both. Why don't you talk about both."

It had been dark in the room for more than an hour. Prudence turned on a light and went into the kitchen. She came back with bagels, cream cheese and a diet Pepsi, which we split.

Prudence bit into her bagel and chewed with a tiny clump of cream cheese smeared on the end of her nose. "You left out food," she remarked. "You can't discuss loneliness on an empty stomach."

We ate and talked. We talked about almost everything except love and sex.

"So, what about it?" I asked.

She dipped a finger into the cream cheese and licked it. "You don't give up, do you?"

I shook my head.

"OK, it's like this. If I sleep with a man I'm not seriously interested in, he always comes back wanting more, and (concluded on page 149) Prudence (continued from page 82) it takes a lot of effort to get rid of him." She shifted her weight forward and looked down at the floor. "And if I sleep with a man I actually care about, and I tell him how much I care, he runs the other way. It's a cruel, childish game."

"But it doesn't have to be that way," I said, moving closer. "Not all men are like that."

I stroked her back and she touched my knee with her hand. I put my arm around her shoulders and hugged her. She turned and hugged me back, and it was a good, long hug. I closed my eyes for a few moments and smelled the heavy fragrance of her dusting powder. I think it was Tabu. When I opened my eyes all I could see was the glowing ooze of the lava lamp.

It was late and Prudence insisted I spend the night, on her couch. She brought me a pillow and a blanket and, when she kissed me goodnight, she hugged me and purred like a cat.

At about one A.M. I awoke to muffled sounds coming from another room. "Yum, yum, yum. Yum, yum, yum." I stumbled into the kitchen and found Prudence seated at the table facedown in a bucket of double Dutch chocolate ice cream. I rubbed my eyes.

"My God," I muttered, still half asleep. "You need help. Where are the spoons?"

"I didn't mean to wake you," she said, grinning. "I just had this incredible craving."

"I know exactly how that feels," I said. I pulled a tablespoon and a bowl from the dish rack and turned to face Chopper, who was sitting on the floor beneath Prudence, wagging her stubby tail and drooling. I scooped some ice cream from the bucket and motioned to the dog. "Is this OK?"

Prudence nodded her approval. I set the bowl on the floor and Chopper went to work. Prudence leaned down and rubbed Chopper's back with long, tender strokes. Prudence looked up at me and smiled, and her teeth shone white against the dark chocolate smudged across her lips, chin and cheeks. She scooted over on the breakfast bench.

"Chopper's usually afraid of men," she said, smiling and patting the seat next to her. "But I think that she really likes you."

"Well," I said, sitting on the bench, moving close to her, "I know I like you."

I gazed into the dreamy invitation of her beautiful blue-green eyes. She ran her tongue gently across the puffy fullness of her upper lip and whispered softly, "Kiss me." And I kissed her.

We kissed slowly and deeply. And we laughed. We stuck our fingers in the bucket and smeared ice cream across our lips and faces and licked each other from nose to chin and from ear to ear. Our lips and tongues explored the depths of an ice-cream fantasy. We embraced and began our glorious journey together, moaning in unison, "Yum, yum, yum." This was more than passion mixed with double Dutch chocolate. This was the ultimate kiss, hot enough to melt a hundred Valentine candies and just as sweet. Our passion melted into a celebration of trust and understanding, a revel of love that began with an innocent snack in the kitchen and ended with a fabulous feast in the bedroom. A feast of recognition and discovery and joy, a feast of laughter during which I could think of nothing except satisfying Prudence. And my thoughts were rewarded in the most wonderful, sticky ways.

We embraced and began our glorious journey together, moaning in unison, 'Yum, yum, yum.' "