Being and Doing: A Sex Story

by Stephen Kemp

Emily stirred the kettle.  She was thinking about how much she loved to cook this soup, one of her favorite recipes, how it goes in circles.

Yesterday the broth was there in the bottom of the pot -- now it would start this day's soup.  She threw in the barley, stirred it swirling into more circles and left it to simmer, while she chopped the carrots and potatoes and celery. 

"How's it going, honey?"  Peter asked from the doorway as he peered in at her, "Something is starting to smell pretty good. What are you making?"

"Oh, it's just some chicken soup.  Same old thing, you know," she smiled to herself, "Nothing special."

Peter was so predictable.  He usually poked his head into the kitchen when the cooking smells got his attention. 

Peter privately marveled at her skill in the kitchen.  Someone had once commented, he recalled, that of all the ways there are for people to be creative, cooking was the highest form.  It engages the most senses -- the way it sounds when it's boiling, or boiling over, the way it smells from moment to moment as it cooks, whether or not it looks done, or feels done when you plunge a fork into it.  And of course the ultimate result: how it tastes. 

Add to this the timing of the whole process, Peter thought, for Peter was a scientist, and you have to realize it is actually applied organic chemistry, but with an elaborate creative flavor.

"My, dear," he smiled at her, "You are truly an artist in the kitchen."

She looked up from the cutting board at him.  "Okay.  What are you
after?"

She waited, suspicious, mildly amused.

"Well, nothing…" He loved that expectant look, the intensity of her when she was busy working in the kitchen, and now the twinkle in her eye.  "I'm just admiring the way you glow when you're cooking."

"Oh, come on.  What's going on?"

"You're very sexy, there, chopping."

"Oh, that," she laughed, recalling their lovemaking this morning -- very good and warm and satisfying.  She smiled and returned to her chopping,

"Well, there is something," he finally admitted, "Jesse just asked me where babies come from."

"Oh?" she continued chopping.

"Um, I guess I'm wondering what to do," he sounded hopeful.

"So, just tell him," she looked up at him, playfully.

"Sure.  Just tell him.  Right."  He frowned.  Jesse was six, but he was a precocious and very curious kid.  And he loves the girls.   "Emily, honey, I never had to do this before.  I don't know how to do this.  Can't you take care of it?" 

"Oh, stop your whining," she laughed, "I've never done it before either, you know, and I am pretty busy right now.  Why don’t you just take a whack at it."  She gave one loud chop, just for the fun of it.

Jesse bounced into the kitchen and plopped down at the table.  "Hi, Mom.
Whatcha making?"

"I'm making chicken soup, honey," she replied without looking up.

"Where do babies come from, Mom?"

"Your dad was just going to tell you about that."  She smiled again to herself, happy to have everyone in the kitchen amusing her here while she worked.

Peter sighed, and sat down at the table across from Jesse, who wriggled in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

"Okay, Jesse," Peter said,  "It all started a long, long time ago."  He paused, thinking.  "Back in the time before people lived in houses, a way long time ago…."

"Yup." Jesse said, helpfully, swinging his legs back and forth expectantly.

"Well, it's pretty hard to live when you don’t have a house."

"Yeah." Jesse was still listening, but now he was peering through the screen door at Sam the dog, sniffing around the tree, there, outside.

"So when it's that hard to live, everybody has to help out, just like when we camp."  This got Jesse's full attention again -- he liked to camp out.

Peter went on, "And the men's job was to go out and hunt and get things to eat.  They were hunters and they got the meat.  Now, the women's job was to take care of the camp while the men hunted."

Jesse lit up, "So everybody was camping all the time?"

"Yup, everybody camped.  So the women kept the camp, and one of their most important jobs was to gather things."

"Yeah, like gather the firewood, right Dad?"

"Yes.  The wood for the fire, berries to eat, and nuts and roots and vegetables, or any sort of food that they could find to gather up to eat."

Jesse waited, taking this all in, still with legs swinging slowly.  Peter continued.

"And while the women were waiting at the camp and gathering stuff, the men would be out running around hunting."

"Were there babies, too, Dad?"

"Yes, Jesse, we're getting to that part."  Peter was starting to sound nervous.

"Whenever the women were busy together, they kept each other company.
 They would watch and listen and talk to each other and tell each other where they had gone and what they had seen from day to day."

Emily was listening to all this.  She stopped chopping the celery for a moment, and looked up to see a squirming Jesse getting very restless.

"And what about the babies?" she chimed in.  Peter coughed, and peered up at her for a moment.  She smiled at him and winked.  She gave Jesse a carrot to chew on.

 Peter groped for words.

"Yes, the babies were there, too, at the camp.  And the moms watched them and took care of them.  That was the moms' other main job." 

Emily just shook her head, amazed and amused.

"But, where did they come from, Dad?" Jesse pressed.

"We're getting to that, but it's a long story."

Jesse squirmed, "I gotta pee."

"Go ahead, honey," Emily said, without looking up, "But be sure you put the seat up, you know."

"Okay, Mom," Jesse ran for the bathroom.

"Whew," Peter sighed, "This is tough."

Emily chuckled and teased, "At this rate, we'll be grandparents before the poor kid ever gets to the birds and the bees!"

"I am just trying to give him the big picture before I plunge into the details."  Peter explained, though it sounded even to him like an excuse.

He did know where he wanted to go with this -- he had just not quite figured out the route yet.

Jesse ran back into the kitchen, "Hey, Mom, I'm going to go play with Sam," and with that he was out the door, slamming it behind him.

Peter watched Emily pick up the cutting board and turn, dumping the vegetables into the simmering soup.  She turned around to look back at him, "I guess you're off the hook, buddy."

"You’re a fine woman, you sweet thing," Peter cooed, "But you sure can be heartless."

"No, Pete, don’t get me wrong.  I was just so curious about what you would say.  I had to hear it.  And now I am even more curious.  What the heck were you driving at, anyway?  Where do babies come from?" she laughed, and bumped him playfully with her hip on her way to the fridge.

Peter loved her dearly.  She understood him so well, he knew, and yet she often seemed surprised by him.  He found this mystifying -- and fascinating.

"Well, I wasn't entirely sure.  I guess I need to think about it a little more.  But I figured he'd eventually get bored and go out to play."  Peter reflected, remembering a conversation with his father when he was a teenager.

Dad had said, "Women are, but men do.  You have to understand that difference. Men are forever building, or discovering or measuring or analyzing -- they like fast cars, big trucks -- they are competitors, they want to win."

"Women, on the other hand, are largely more interested in how things are going, or how they are going to be -- they care about feelings, and their children and their friends, and their homes and their things, their security -- they want peace."

Peter remembered asking Dad, "So why do I have to give them flowers?"   He could see his father saying, "There is no explaining why a man is supposed to gather sexual organs of beings from a different kingdom and then give them to the girls," for Dad was a scientist too, "But one thing is for sure: it pleases the girls, and they like the feeling.  That's the only thing you have to know -- the feeling.  And once you can understand that, then you'll have some hope of understanding women.  Well, at least sometimes.  That is the being part of it, right there, in the feelings."

Peter got up to move behind Emily, then with one hand stroked the nape of her neck. "So, now I have you all to myself…."  He slid his other hand around her waist and whispered, "I'm hunting, hunting…"

She shivered and grabbed his hand, pressing it to her stomach.  "Yes, but I am trying to gather my wits about me," she kissed his cheek, "But you have to let me go, I've got this soup going!"  He kissed her neck lightly before she wriggled away.

He sat back down at the table and continued, "When I was seventeen or so, I asked my father to explain to me about women.  He went on at some length on the subject, and by the time he was done, I understood women a lot better."

"Really? What did he tell you?"

"Well, like I was saying, women are the gatherers and men are the hunters.  That is our nature.  Men are the seekers, women are the keepers. 

"So, men are forever in action, looking for things to do, looking for new toys, new tools, so they can find ever more things to do.  They go through life doing this, doing that, looking for every opportunity.  They build things, they blow things up. 

He continued, "But women are reflective, more interested in ways to be, how things feel, how they smell, how they look, how they taste. They know where their kids are.  They network." 

She turned around, smiling at him again, "So if men are the doers, how is it I am the one making the soup?"

He thought about that for a while, "Well, of course nothing is ever that black and white.  But if you think about it – generally, women are more aware and men are more focused."

"Maybe," Emily smiled, not necessarily convinced, "So?"

"Well, I guess what I am trying to say is that the sexes are different that way." 

At exactly this instant, she felt a little flutter that distracted her for a moment.  She moved closer to kiss Peter on the forehead, and blushed for a hot moment.  Then she turned to continue making dinner.  “Pete, why don't you go take a nap?  The soup'll be awhile anyway.” 

Peter smiled, happy and confident that Emily really did understand him so well, and headed to the couch for a nap.  He started to dream almost immediately.

2

Six thousand years ago

The woman was dawdling near the path.  The sun was out, shining brightly down on the group as they made their way to the high plains to hunt the woolly mammoths.  Up the trail ahead, the men led, spears in hand, with some of the older kids trailing close behind, lugging weapons and skins.

Whenever the band was trekking like this, she tried to find time to do a little exploring, always on the lookout for anything new -- anything that might be edible or useful.

She had spotted a purple flower she recognized.  As she sniffed it, her memory turned to last spring, when her man had given her such a flower after he returned from one of the hunts.  He said he liked the way it smelled, and nobody had seen such a flower before, so it made a good gift.

Now she sniffed this one approvingly, then pinched  off a leaf with her fingernails and smelled it, too --  a strong, spicy aroma.  The roots were too bitter and not very interesting, but she could see it would have some kind of berry, though nothing that looked ripe, yet.  She would remember this plant when summer came, and seek it out again to taste the berries.

She plucked two flowers, carefully put them in her hair, one over each ear, and returned to the path, where the oldest boys and girls were bringing up the rear.  She spotted her little sister, Lah, who was just in her twelfth year, and walked along beside her for a while amidst the chattering pack of teenagers.

She held out one of the flowers for Lah to smell, and then confided, "I think it will have good berries," as she placed it over Lah's ear, "We will go find it again when summer comes." 

Lah smiled at her and hugged her arm, then turned to gaze at her favorite young man so he could admire her face and this exotic flower.  He glanced at her, but right now he was showing the other boys how far he could throw rocks.  But finally he did look at her and smiled, moving closer trying to sniff the flower over her ear.  She pushed him away demurely.  He was too late.  She had no time for him, now.

Peter rolled over and the dream ended.  Another started after a few moments.

3
Sperm

Until a few hours ago, Zoa had only been one day old, surrounded by a teeming mass of other spermatozoa, all struggling, in motion, ready, willing, but captive in their great pressing anticipation to get out, to make room for the newest sperms always arriving.

But now, Zoa was alone for the first time, well beyond the others striving to get ahead, to keep moving, to be first to find the sweet thing.  There was no consciousness here except the focused will to seek the thing out, and the certainty of wanting it, needing, having to be the first.  And doing it soon.  The sweet thing was all that was missing.

Hereabouts, the surroundings were different, warmer, and the color was darker.  Zoa was a stranger here, but was energized by a sense of a different chemistry in this strange place, a welcoming sensation, a smell beckoning from afar, where the sweet thing was waiting and ready.

Zoa thrust and thrust and thrust again, seeking, vigilant, unrelenting, purposeful, focused solely on reaching the sweet distant thing that was now slowly growing ever closer, ever richer, ever more alluring, compelling.

And this was the single chance to be first, to deliver the magic fluttering touch.

To win.

4
Egg

The ovum knew no other, only the smell of the oneness of life.  It knew no space, no motion, only the waiting.

For many years it had been set aside here, still, kept in waiting, vaguely sensing a regular tidal flow of smells, and sensations, diffusely aware of occasional feelings pressed upon it.  It was somehow rooted, yet suspenseful, expectant, ready.

Then finally, to it came a whiff of the quickening and suddenly it was loose, had motion, tumbling slowly as a way opened to it, toward a larger place where the smell was ripe, somehow, with potential, with safety, with comfort.  With expectation.  The feeling was good.  It tumbled into a place to settle, and there, clinging at the shore of this gentle, surging sea, it was now awaiting an arrival of something from somewhere beyond its conception. 

So, now will be the time, and here is the place.  All is ready, well prepared.   It waits in stillness, receptive, fecund.  It is good.

Finally, just the right flutter at just the right time -- at this very instant a little tickle tugs at it, in this perfect place. 

Suddenly.  Life comes forth -- one madly dashing cell of spermatozoa does finally penetrate this ripe ovum waiting here,  They become one another, merge and dance, multiplying in geometric precision.  The doing becomes, and the being does quicken -- where quiet nothing was before, now everything is moving.

5

Dinner

Peter, still dreaming, heard his father say, "Women like it circular.  Men like to go straight in,"  and woke up with a start.  He smelled food.

Emily had moved on, preparing the main course, and now had called Peter to get up for dinner.  The three of them sat eating at the table.  Jesse was wiggling, as usual.

"Jesse, this is pretty good food, huh?" Peter prompted, "Mom's a real good cook, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Jesse grunted, too busy to add anything else, stuffing another spoonful of food into his mouth.  He ate with great gusto.

"Save some room for the strawberries, honey," Emily said.

Jesse looked up and beamed.  He loved strawberries.  "Can I have some now, Mom?"  He started wiggling again, in anticipation.

"Well, okay, I guess so… it looks like you ate it all up," she smiled, "You're a good eater.  You're a good boy."  Jessie beamed.

They ate berries in cream with a little sugar.  Jesse was taking his sweet time to finish while Peter sipped his coffee, now refreshed from his nap and openly feasting his eyes all over Emily as she cleaned the table around them.

Finally, Emily stopped moving for a second and then sat down, heaving a sigh at having a chance to take a little break, and happy that Peter was being so flirty.  She watched Jesse eating the strawberries, so slowly, so deliberately.  He was such a funny little guy.  She understood him so well, yet he was always surprising her.  She felt a wave of love wash over her.  "I sure love my Jesse," she tousled his hair and he beamed again, now done with the last berry, fidgeting, ready to go play some more.

"Honey," she looked at him, "You were asking where babies come from?"

He nodded.

Emily glanced at Peter, smiling while she answered, "Well, Jesse, babies come from moms, when they're good and ready."
"Okay, Mom," Jesse agreed, "Can I go out now?"

Emily's answer stunned Peter for a second, but then he quickly recovered to answer Jesse, "Yeah, sure, Jesse.  Go find Sam the dog and throw the Frisbee for him.  Here you go."  He reached to the shelf and tossed the frisbee to the boy.  Jesse just caught the Frisbee and was out the back door like a flash. 

Now, Peter thought, there was time.  He was growing more interested in Emily by the moment.  Their eyes locked.

She knew just what he wanted to do.  He knew just how good she would be.

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