Theater Plays. Valentin Krasnogorov

You know, it would be inappropriate here.

      WIFE. So tell me when and where it would be appropriate for you? Why does it always have to be in the matrimonial bed, always at the same time, on the weekend, ten minutes after the light is turned off? Why not in the morning, why not in the afternoon? Why always lying in bed? Why not standing up or sitting down? Why not on the floor or on a table? Why not on the washing machine? Why not on a swing in the garden? Why not on a roll of barbed wire? Why not by candlelight? Why don’t you take me by surprise, without warning, when I’m not expecting it, where it’s inconvenient? Why does it always have to be at home, in a warm and comfortable room, when we’re yawning before going to sleep, in the same everlasting bed?

      HUSBAND. Because… Because in the bed is more convenient.

      WIFE. More convenient? Then why are the times on the back seat of a cramped car, or in a forest on an ant hill, or on a dark backstairs the ones we remember forever, while matrimonial caresses at home, in the soft, wide, convenient bed so suitable for sexual pleasure are forgotten in ten minutes?

      HUSBAND. Because… I don’t know why.

      WIFE. Why don’t you come up to me when I’m washing the dishes and take me from behind? Why don’t you look for a chance, why don’t you pursue me? Why I am always sure that you won’t do anything unexpected? Why not at a symphony concert? Why not in someone else’s apartment, where somebody might come in at any moment?

      HUSBAND. Somebody could come in here at any moment.

      WIFE. Well, let them. Let something happen at last. I don’t want to be stuck inevitably doing the same thing over and over. I want unpredictability. I want to not know what awaits me tonight. Maybe a meeting with a girlfriend in a cafe, or maybe a party at somebody’s home… Or a quiet walk alone through the park, or taking a rest in an armchair with a book in my hands, or an unexpected rendezvous on a dark beach under the stars… Under the bright stars in a mysterious black sky… White sand, pounding waves, the passionate embrace of unfamiliar arms, hands greedily exploring a new and unfamiliar body – my body – that longs impatiently for those arms… But none of this will ever be, and I know precisely what will happen today, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow. It seems as if my life has already ended, because I already know everything; I’ve already gone through everything. There is nothing new left to happen. I’m not living, I only continue to exist. I read the same page of the same book, and it is so boring to me, boring, boring… It’s so boring to me! Let's have sex!

      HUSBAND. My God, again?

      WIFE. “Again”? Did we already do it?

      HUSBAND. In general or today?

      WIFE. What happened in general, I don’t remember anymore. There never was anything, and there never will be. All that there is, is “now.” Why do we live only in the past or in the future? Why not to try to live now, and so that "now" can make us happy? Let's have…

      HUSBAND.… Sex.

      WIFE. Yes. For a change.

      HUSBAND. I don’t know what has come over you. You sound so cynical. Such a matter-of-fact and naked way of putting it: “Let's have sex.”

      WIFE. And what do you want me to say? “Let's make love”? Love? Doesn’t that seem ridiculous to you? Aren’t you embarrassed? Doesn’t it sound cynical? And you don’t seem to approve of the word “naked.” Better to be clothed. In a long coat, for example. All buttoned up.

      HUSBAND. In a decent society they don’t talk about sex.

      WIFE. You might think that in a decent society they don’t have sex.

      HUSBAND. They do, but they just don’t talk about it.

      WIFE. But each of us is not first and foremost an executive, a teacher, an engineer, a doctor or a member of parliament. First of all we are men and women. Why shouldn’t we think about it and talk about it? Why should I be ashamed of what is natural? Of what gives me pleasure?

      HUSBAND. You shouldn’t be ashamed, but you shouldn’t talk about it either.

      WIFE. And what do they talk about in a decent society?

      HUSBAND. I don’t know. About money.

      WIFE. You want me to talk to you about money? About what you call your salary? Well then, let's talk about money.

      HUSBAND. No, better not.

      WIFE. And what is so cynical in the word "sex"? It is matter-of-fact – I agree. But sex is a fact of life. A part of our lovely, comfortable, boring, miserable everyday life. You say, “Let's have supper.” So why can’t I say, “Let's have sex”? Let's watch TV. Let's go shopping. Let's go to the movies. Let's have sex. Let's take out the trash. Let’s do the laundry. Let's have sex. Let's call up some friends. Let's…

      HUSBAND. Enough!

      WIFE.… Let's move the furniture. Let's buy a teapot. Let's have sex. Let's go to bed… Does “Let's go to bed” sound cynical too?

      HUSBAND. It depends on with whom.

      WIFE. With my husband.

      HUSBAND. With your husband it does not sound cynical.

      WIFE. It doesn’t sound anything at all.

      HUSBAND. So tell me, are you having a hard time at work?

      WIFE. I’m having a hard time at home. At home, not only do I not have sex, but I’m also forbidden to talk of it.

      HUSBAND. Why should we talk about it?

      WIFE. Precisely because we don’t do it. And what else should I talk about? About the children that I don’t have?

      HUSBAND. What has come over you today?

      WIFE. Nothing. Today I want to talk about sex, again about sex and only about sex. Even if it’s just for today. Even if only to talk. I kept silent about it all my life. I talked about everything in the world. About Beethoven and the prices at the market. About skirts and French painting. About local elections and the boss’s tie. So really, do Beethoven, French painting, prices, skirts, elections and the boss’s tie interest you and me more than sex?

      HUSBAND. Skirts interest you.

      WIFE. And you too.

      HUSBAND. Everything about a woman interests me.

      WIFE. Yes. Everything between her knees and her waist.

      HUSBAND. I’m a normal man.

      WIFE. I wish I was sure of that.

      HUSBAND. You are talking recklessly.

      WIFE. That’s good. I grew up inhibited and uptight. Sex was forbidden. Nobody spoke about it. It was obscene, done only at night. Only with the shades down and the lights off. So that nobody would see, even yourself. It was forbidden to remember it in the morning or discuss it at work. We were sexless. We had nothing between our legs. And now they do it in broad daylight. Now they show it at the movies. Now they write about it in children's books. Recently I found twenty-two tips on how to use birth-control in a magazine for schoolgirls. And I had never read about it before.

      HUSBAND. So what do you want?

      WIFE. To take the taboo off of sex. To free it from sin. To lift the veil of secrecy from it. To stop alluding to it. To call things by their proper names. Penis. Orgasm. Vagina.

      HUSBAND. You’re crazy..

      WIFE. Yes, I’ll repeat the word "vagina" twenty times, two hundred times, until the word starts to sound neutral, sterile, medical. Until you stop reacting to it; until people who hear it stop giggling, or being offended by the vulgarity of it, stop being indignant or getting excited. Vagina, vagina, vagina…

      HUSBAND. Stop it!

      WIFE. Vagina, vagina, vagina…

      HUSBAND. You’re crazy.

      WIFE. And you’re a hypocrite. A puritan. What is more attractive to you than a vagina? What do you see in your dreams? What do you pay the most attention to when you look at paintings in museums? What is the main thing for you in a woman?