The Playwright Ken Urban, 2009
Hayley, you think I don’t want to have numerous women of various ages slap my face with their luscious breasts repeatedly?
You think I don’t plan on watching pornographic movies featuring the most vile and extreme expressions of sexuality between man, woman and beast?
You think I don’t desire to enter a hotel room off of Route 130 and stand in line to fuck a faceless man’s asshole while the others fuck his mouth repeatedly, each of us eventually cumming on his face?
You think I don’t envision a lost weekend where every one of my orifices is poked and probed by an incalculable number of genitals, devices, mouths, fingers, household appliances, electrical fuses, and young reptiles?
Everyone has dreams Hayley, everyone.
We will have a Volvo and two kids and our parents will envy us and we’ll tell everyone at cocktail parties we met in high school, we are high school sweethearts, and every time, they will coo and moo at the sight of our unending love, jealous of our perfect union, completely unaware that hours ago I was involved in acts of extreme debauchery at a Motel 6 in Pennsauken with a young Asian couple and their lapdog, while you’re pretending to be fucked by a man thrice your age in a Santa costume.
But see, they’ll never know. Because there are things you never talk about.
THAT’S CALLED BEING AN ADULT
THAT’S CALLED MARRIAGE
THAT’S CALLED LOVE.