Jack Peasley is a poet, performance artist, wit raconteur, sexual mystic, deceitful motivational corporate speaker, and entirely unknown author who usually lives in Chicago.

 

Hot Clowns
"Some women like lawyers, some like doctors. Some like cowboys. Judy liked clowns..."

I Love to Burn the Flag
"Sometimes the stars would ignite first, sometimes the stripes..."

Faster, Poetry!
Slam! Slam!
Scenes from the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas


Che Guevara Goes to Business School
"I never would have imagined so much could be accomplished by using a personal digital assistant, cellular phone, and speculative capital..."

Black on White:
Black Writers on What It Means to Be White
Edited by David Roediger

PR Watch:
Edited by John Stauber and Sheldon Rampton


And You Will Know Us by the Trail of the Dead:
Madonna

Smoke Signals:
A History of Native Americans in Cinema


by Jack Peasley
09.01.98


wistfully about their first love. I'm no exception. She was so beautiful. She was that kind of woman who didn't simply turn men's heads; she twirled them around like weathervanes on a windy day. She was definitely not the kind of woman you would want to gawk at, at a Shell or Amoco station while pumping your car with gas—unless you wanted to comb your hair with a fire extinguisher. Sure, the doctors and the scientists would say it was static electricity. But poets and philosophers know the real truth—it was pure romance.

One added bonus: in addition to her being extremely attractive she was very intelligent, extraordinarily sophisticated. She knew the spots, the clubs, the venues, the ropes. She combined mystery and elán into a potion so intoxicating that just the scent of her body would make your nose bleed.

It was summer when we met. The slate-gray skies of winter gave way to the cerulean blues of late Spring. The trees, once bare, burst like my young heart into the riotous peridots of full foliage.

I was about to begin my second year of college, and hungered to mount that golden staircase to manhood that all boys dream of. Yes—I'll say it—I wanted to make love with a woman.

It would be the first time. I wanted it to be perfect. And it looked like I had found a willing partner.

Something else I liked about her was that she was a couple of years older than me, more mature, artistic, wise. And she had her own apartment, in a very sheik and bohemian part of town. It was a whirlwind romance, a page torn from the book of love, by the winds of time, dancing on the airwaves of destiny. Cafes, galleries, flea markets, avante garde film festivals—these were the planets that swirled in orbit around our perfect sun, our romance.

Eventually, that profound and sacred moment arrived. Her nightgown dropped to the floor. My love stood naked before me. Yes, naked, in all her magnificent splendor. A symphony orchestra that had been tuning up in my heart all of my young life suddenly burst into an overture conducted simultaneously by all of history's greatest composers.

This moment was as perfect as I had imagined it. Perfect in every aspect, except one.

It was rather a minor flaw, but it jostled me from my reverie, from my nirvana of romantic desire, from my shalimar, my tantric love tent of simmering passion. There, fixed firmly and squarely between her legs were what appeared to be the genitals of a man.

Were my eyes playing tricks on me, I wondered? There, clearly, were a pair of testicles, and—if you'll forgive my frankness, a man's genital organ in a state of obvious arousal. I was staring at a full erection.

My love caught me staring and asked in a sultry voice, "What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a woman's vagina before?"

Well, I didn't want to seem naïve, ignorant or inexperienced. I said, "Of course I have. I've seen many. It's just that I've never seen one so... so... uh... so beautiful. So feminine."

She smiled.

I felt relieved. I had to smile to myself that I had pulled one over on her. She hadn't caught on that I was a virgin.

But the truth was that I had never seen one—a naked woman, that is. I had seen photographs, but never the real thing. Oh, I had a rough idea. That's why this genitals things threw me for a loop. I had to admit, it caught me off balance. But I would permit no obstacle—nothing—to stand in my way of joining that jolly fraternity of men who had made love to a woman.

And that we did. All night, and many nights thereafter. And it was wonderful. But the issue of her genitalia still perplexed me.

I needed some advice. So I solicited it from the smartest man I knew. I asked my father.

My dad was quite a guy. If anyone knew the answer to this curious riddle, it was he.

More than once, he had steered me down the right path. I knew this time would be no different.

One time, as a young boy, I came home from school with my nose all bloodied, mad as hell. I said, "Dad, I want you to teach me to box, to fight."

Dad inquired, "What happened? Some bully rough you up?"

"Goddamn right," I said, "and I want to kick his ass"

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