Birds Do Do It --by Jennifer L. Knox

Thanks so much, David and Stacey, for asking me to be a guest blogger for a few days. And thanks again, David, for selecting my poem for BAEP. Since composing the one-sentence note in which I named a favorite work of erotic literature, I’ve been reconsidering the definitions of erotic, versus sexy, versus sensuous, versus why do I get all flushed watching old reruns of Ernie Kovacs? Of one thing I’m certain: it’s a lot easier for me to define when and how a work of art represses sexuality, as opposed to when it flaunts it.

This was the case when my friends, Ada and Heather, were over watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds on cable. As the pecking hoardes swooped down on the hysterical school children, I said, “This movie’s about sexual repression…in Puritanical America…the small town mob, or flock, mentality.”

“Yep…” Ada said, “…when Rod Taylor goes into the bird store and asks for love birds, he says he wants them to be ‘demonstratively affectionate, but not too demonstrative.’”

“And he calls his mother ‘darling,’” Heather grimaced.

“Jessica Tandy’s son’s so much older than her daughter.”

“She only had sex twice in her life, with a 20-year refractory period in between.”

“The little girl should be Tippi Hedren’s daughter.”

“Well, Tippi and Jessica have exactly the same hairdo.”

“Tippi is Jessica before the Purtians took her vagina away—the women are interchangeable.”

“Except for their vaginas. Tippi’s vagina’s alive and bright green like the lovebirds’ feathers, and her dress…”

“…which she’s been wearing through the entire movie...”

“…but Jessica Tandy dress and vagina are black and white, like the crows and the gulls.”

“Jessica Tandy’s black and white vagina just broke that little girl’s glasses, and it’s about to blow up the gas station.”

“Dude, Jessica Tandy’s black and white vagina is pissed.”

It was great fun, but it’s almost too easy to play “Spot the Angry Vagina” in a Hitchcock movie—especially The Birds. Though historically used to symbolize both romantic love and eroticism, Hitchcock knew that birds are also an ideal symbol of sexual repression because they have no external junk. Nothing to ogle. Nothing trussed up in a bullet bra, or stuffed into terry cloth swim trunks.

As the owner of two parakeets and two lovebirds, I’ll tell you that nothing about my birds is sexually-repressed. But neither are they the least bit erotic. The parakeets are still young (it takes them three years to reach sexual maturity—the male would rather croon to his beloved bell, Belly). The lovebirds, however, are in full bloom, and they don’t call them lovebirds for nothin. Jack, the male, was so named for his chronic masturbation habit (The vet’s diagnosis: “An unwholesome relationship with his Birdybuddy™ blanket”). Piggle, the female, is the bird-sized equivalent of Tony Soprano, which makes for loud (Piggle honks impatiently like an idling livery cab; Jack makes an inexplicable ticking sound like an egg timer), goofy, fumbly, waddling intercourse.

But doesn’t that apply to all species? What animal looks sexy as it’s sexing? If you said, “Me,” here’s $20. I really admire that. You’re being very subjective, though. Film it from start to finish, watch it, and rethink your answer. If you said, “Snakes,” a cursory google search (“do snakes f*k”) will yield some surprising, but in no way sexy, photos of snakes actually doing it. If you think the images of snakes doing it are sexy, I’m guessing—just guessing—you also get a little turned on at the thought of getting your tooth pulled out by tying a string around it, tying the other end to a door knob, and slamming the door. And that’s OK—there’s a website for that. Elephant sex is so slow and erotic, D.H. Lawrence wrote a poem about it—the irony being that elephants aren’t the least bit erotic when they’re just standing around in mud. Noble and intelligent, yes—but not erotic. Maybe animals have a better chance of looking sexy when they’re do it by looking unsexy when they’re just hanging out. Maybe this is why porn stars look like frowny cum clowns in under the cold light of a check-out line at Radio Shack.

Full disclosure: I am a voyeur, and my niche fetish is watching Youtube videos of other people’s pet birds. There, I said it. That’s how I stumbled across the clip linked below. Promise me you’ll watch it until the end.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_qodqDw2x8

Watching this clip mirrored the path of my emotional journey watching Andy Kaufman sing, in entirety, “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” At first, I was like, “This is awesome!” But I quickly grew bored, then despondent—I knew exactly how long it would go on (I could see the timer at the bottom of the screen), but surely he couldn’t go on that long. Then I felt embarrassed—for myself, for the bird, for the stuffed chicken, for the hand holding the stuffed chicken, and for anyone else who had watched it (now, that includes you). Then my stomach cramped up. But suddenly I was afraid—what if he didn’t make it? “Don’t stop now, you little freak,” I said, and loudly woo-hooed when he crossed the finish line.

When I sent the clip to my boyfriend, he emailed me back saying, “I like the end, but I don’t like watching people watch their pets masturbate.” “What about just watching your pet masturbate?” “Well, that’s inevitable. But I don’t like it when my pets watch me masturbate.” I agreed. But my birds don’t seem to mind the inevitable, as they are at it again, right in front of my face as I type this. But I’m not looking at them. And I’m certainly not going to film them and post it on Youtube. Let every species revel its own wild, awkward, indescribable privacy.

Comments

[Harry Hands]

Please, think of the kittens.

[Harry Hands]

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/11/God-kills-kitten.jpg

[Troy]

I heart JK