The Education of a Pervert 

Sometimes I worry that I may have a perverted mean streak in my nature. I take an inordinate sense of satisfaction in forcing our grossly overweight kitty, "Fat Cat," to wait until exactly 7 AM and 5 PM before I deliver his precisely measured 1/4 cup of dry cat food and I take a secret delight in greeting the occasional Jehovah Witness pairs that appear at my door with apparent cordiality, whereupon I deluge them with church bulletins, vestry reports and a warm invitation to come visit our wonderful little Episcopal church. It usually takes about two minutes before they start edging away from the front door. Sometimes they even forget to press their pamphlet into my hands before they make a hasty retreat. 

Last night I think I pulled off some kind of coup in the "turning the tables" department. American Experience on PBS was about 15 minutes into a one hour program, profiling the famous sex researcher, Alfred Kinsey. They had already covered Kinsey's troubled childhood with an autocratic, prudish father and were just beginning to get into the "good stuff about his revolutionary sex research when the phone rang. 

I picked up the phone and thought I could hear what sounded like someone breathing heavily, but no one answered my greetings, so I hung up. Two minutes later, the phone rang again and this time the caller responded to my irritated, ”Hello" with a whispered "Tell me what kind of panties you're wearing." 

I started to slam down the phone when I realized the PBS program was just beginning some juicy stuff about how up-tight and Victorian post-WW II America was. Instead of slamming the phone down, I held it to my ear and also brought the speaker of the phone close to the TV, just as they were beginning to document how prudish America was in the Forties about Masturbation, pre-Marital and extra-Marital Sex, Homosexuality and Sex in any position other than the Missionary Position. 

I could tell I had the Sex Pervert's attention. He made one more feeble attempt to find out what kind of panties I had on, then said, "Whoa, you're really into it!' and finally lapsed into an attentive silence as the program detailed Dr. Kinsey's earthy research, using all sorts of anatomically correct and decidedly unPBSish words. 

Occasionally over the next 30 minutes, as the program would wander into some dry statistics or discuss Dr. Kinsey's academic battles, my Sex Pervert would venture another feeble attempt to excite my libido, but the minute they were back on the "hot stuff," he was all ears. 

When the program ended, I realized that my Sex Pervert had gotten a wonderful review of America's coming of age in the sexual department and also had probably developed some gleam of insight into his own distorted approach to sex. He ventured a couple more amorous overtures before I hung up on him as the American Experience credits scrolled on the TV screen. 

A minute later the phone rang again. I listened quietly to another minute of soft-porn overtures, and then I said in a commanding voice, "Begin to record!" "Record now!" and, finally, "Did you get it?" "Great, good work guys!" The phone suddenly went very dead and never rang again. 

I knew that somewhere in this lonely town on this Valentine's evening, there was a very confused, frustrated and worried Sex Pervert, straining to hear any sounds of approaching police sirens or, even scarier, the sounds of silence as the Sacramento Police Sex Pervert Unit surrounded his once cozy pad. Yes, I'm afraid I really do have a perverted Mean Streak. 

~Susan Lynch