Rules Of The Commune, Part One: Casual Sex Fridays

The Next Family

By: Ann Brown

When the hell are we gonna get this commune going? Am I the only counter-culture hippie left around here to get it together?

All I need is 30 acres. And a handful of yurts. Not the traditional yurts, tho; I want the sort of yurts that have peg and groove hardwood floors and bay windows and nice built-in’s and one of those refrigerators that makes ice from purified water. That kind of yurt. The kind I believe that actual Mongolians would live in if given the option for custom features. Oh, and crown moulding. A yurt just isn’t a yurt without it.

And it doesn’t even really have to be a yurt. I just like saying like the word.

I think I would like, however, to live in a geodesic dome. Or a big, rambling Craftsman.

Yes. A commune of Craftsman houses. And Viking appliances. And gardeners. Shirtless, hunky gardeners. With strong muscles and stronger leftist political leanings. Abs, schmabs, I do not consort with reactionaries. Or with anyone who crosses picket lines. Or anyone who painlessly lost 45 lbs by substituting whole grain pasta for white. Or anyone who says “not a problem” in response to “thank you”. Or Nazis.

Nazis would totally harsh the mellow of the commune, right? All that guttural barking and painstaking scheduling and rigid planning, the copious note-taking, the medical experiments; you go to bed with one nose, you wake up with three – who could sleep with the Nazis in the yurt next door? It would be quiet – too quiet – over there, you know what I’m saying?

Okay, it’s settled. No Nazis. But maybe a couple of Passat wagons for grocery shopping because they really are good cars. And Katarina Witt, if she wants to join. She seems appropriately contrite. She could spring for the matzo at Passover to make up for Holocaust.

I’m still not sure about the open marriage/ casual sex policy. What do you think? It’s pretty uptight to make monogamy a requirement. I mean, free love is the hallmark of the commune. If we legislate against casual sex, what’s next? Dancing? We are not the Duggars. Casual sex it is.

On the other hand, I’m not really down with the whole deal of getting naked in front of random people anymore. I barely look halfway decent fully clothed, and even then, only in dim lighting and covered with a vertically striped circus tent; trotting off with a comrade to strip down to my underwire and maxi-pads just isn’t on my bucket list. And, frankly, blatant promiscuity at the age of 56 is a little bit…unseeming. All that writhing and sweating and insincere gratuitous complimenting is fine for the forty-somethings but I’d like to think I’m above it now.

Anyway, I’m not really interested in sleeping around. I like what Robin and I have in bed: loss of vision. The older we get, the more macular degeneration plays an essential part in our successful sex life. Now, if I can only figure out a way for him to lose feeling in his fingertips, I might have a chance at holding on to my man.

Okay, so no casual sex on the commune.

Except on hash brownie night because no one will remember anything anyway.

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