Women in Search of Balls, Circa 2009

My girlfriend takes a body-rolling class.
The teacher tells her to practice
10 minutes a night while watching TV.
The book tells her the series of pelvic
exercises will make our love-making —
anyone’s love-making —
everyone’s love-making —
more “pleasurable & intense.”
Who doesn’t want that?

I like the idea of more “pleasurable &
intense” love-making, but I don’t like
the word “love-making.” What’s wrong
with “fucking?” I say. Must we be so
pristine? What’s wrong with a little
good old-fashioned fucking?

But the problem, it turns out, is not
one of nomenclature, but one of supplies:

“We need balls,” she says.

“Since when?”

“Spongy pink balls,” she says.

“Why?”

“For my feet — for my body-rolling,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sheepish. Of course.

We scour the basement, but as it turns out,
we don’t have any balls — there, or anywhere.
We are a household entirely devoid of balls.
We have a combination lock that we don’t
know the combination for. We have an ID
bracelet, a monkey wrench, a set of old Spy
Tech walkie-talkies, & a cat scratching post
with most of the carpet scratched off—

but no balls.

We have —

but no balls.

So I call up the store, & I say to the man
who answers —

“Sir, could you tell me — do you have
spongy pink balls?”

Click, the receiver goes.

So I call up a different store, & more
cautiously, I say to the woman who answers —

“Perhaps you could help me — I’m looking for a set
of balls — ”

She is quick to intercept me —
“Then why don’t you grow a pair?”

“Don’t hang up — I need balls.”

Click.

“I’m looking to buy some spongy
pink balls — ”

Click.

“It’s for body-rolling. My girlfriend
needs balls — ”

Click.

“We’re going to have to try the Internet,”
she says, so I type in what, according to
Ockham’s Razor, should be the simplest
location: http://www.balls.com

It’s a blog site, but nobody mentions balls —
not where to get them, nothing.

The commentary goes like this:

i love to watch people suck their wieners

i like big wieners

i love to suck wieners all the time

i enjoy watching other people do it too

Want to contribute?
Join or sign in

(Site last accessed by author 7/12/09)

“I think we’re going to have to go to the store,”
I say.

“The real store — out there where the people are?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But I’m in my bathrobe, & I’m sleepy, & it’s Sunday.
Who goes to the store on Sunday to buy balls?”

“Someone who needs them for body-rolling,” I say.

“Are we going to a toy store?”

“I think we should.”

“Is a toy store the best place to buy balls?”

“I think it is.”

“On Sunday?”

“On any day,” I say.

“But won’t it seem creepy — that we don’t have kids,
& are trying to buy balls, just the two of us, without kids,
on a Sunday?”

“Good point,” I say. “We’ll have to buy balls on
Tuesday afternoon.”

She agrees & pours more coffee.
“You can do almost anything on a Tuesday afternoon.”

Julie Marie Wade

When I Was Straight

I did not love women as I do now.
I loved them with my eyes closed, my back turned.
I loved them silent, & startled, & shy.

The world was a dreamless slumber party,
sleeping bags like straitjackets spread out on
the living room floor, my face pressed into a

slender pillow.

All night I woke to rain on the strangers’ windows.
No one remembered to leave a light on in the hall.
Someone’s father seemed always to be shaving.

When I stood up, I tried to tiptoe
around the sleeping bodies, their long hair
speckled with confetti, their faces blanched by the

porch-light moon.

I never knew exactly where the bathroom was.
I tried to wake the host girl to ask her, but she was
only one adrift in that sea of bodies. I was ashamed

to say they all looked the same to me, beautiful &
untouchable as stars. It would be years before
I learned to find anyone in the sumptuous,

terrifying dark.

Julie Marie Wade