Page to Stage: F*** means intercourse

How my mom's completely unflappable word lesson gave six-year-old me a loophole to cuss—and what adapting it for the stage taught me about the stories we think we know.

Well, hello, all you fantastic so-and-so’s! And how are we today? In the mood for a quick story? Here is mine; it won “Best in show” at Six Feet Apart Productions’ Story Slam last week. They sent me a mug that says winner and I get to feature at their next slam in August. I’m not used to winning anything, and the universe, in its ever-present pursuit of keeping my ego in check, did so, via host Claire, who told everyone several times that the “voting was super, SUPER close.” Ha, ha, okay, Claire (aka UNIVERSE), I get it! My story scraped by!

Self-deprecation aside, it was awesome to have people enjoy my story, and I’m looking forward to featuring at SFAP’s August show, theme: Vacation Vibes. I linked it because it is an open mic, so if you want to tell a story, you can. Check it out.

Watch the video first, then read below? If ya wanna, you don’t havta.

Maybe fun info about Fuck Means Intercourse:

• This story is an excerpt from a longer piece called Library Day. In Library Day, I use my mom telling me fuck means intercourse as an example of how she “never kept information from me.”

• It wasn’t until I started adapting it to onstage performance that I realized A. I might’ve had a contact high, and B. She mighta been fucking with me. So, adapting it has forever changed the story’s meaning for me. It’s no longer a treasured anecdote or a pat character summary of my mom/our relationship, which is a little sad. (This also means it has probably changed Library Day, we’ll see.)

• The whole reason Fuck Means Intercourse became a story is that I was trying to create something to tell at The Moth, and I had no five-minute stories; only twenty-minute stories. I still hope to tell it at The Moth, although I don’t think it will fit with their style too well. Too many fucks? Well, yes. Too. Many. Fucks. C’est la vie!

• “Brenda Parker” is actually the name of a high school friend. I used her name because it has great syncopation. I can’t remember the name of my childhood bully (bullies). I was momentarily concerned that the story would blow up if I shared it via social media and Brenda would see it and be like, “Hey, I never bullied you.” Luckily (?) I don’t think I need to worry about things like going viral, lololol.

• Some people have asked me, what happened next? What happened next was I spent years—YEARS—telling people to ‘intercourse off.’ I thought it was SOOOOOO FUNNY. And everyone—kids, adults, teachers, meanies—all of them reacted the same way: with puzzlement. No one ever got offended, mad, or felt dissed. No one realized I was being naughty or mean or subversive. Or funny, for that matter. Not a one. I was speaking to an audience of one, the biggest fan of my oh-so-clever wordplay: me. (Remember, this is the same time period where I was inordinately fond of telling adults “I’m an only child, aka a LONELY child” and then grew confused when they reacted with worry rather than laughter.)

• I think this performance ended up a little rushed, and I like the piece better when it has a bit more room to breathe. This is just a symptom of my being a beginner at creating short-ass stories (and performing), I’m sure.

And now, here is the written version (like . . . 4th draft, I think?) I used to create the performed version. It’s kinda interesting to see the written piece in lieu of the orated piece. The weirdest part, and I have no idea if it’s like this for anyone else, is that the piece goes from an abstract of writing that was written well enough to be published to oh, hell no, that can’t be published at all (but it can be performed!!!).

Fuck Means Intercourse

I’m lying in front of the fireplace with my face as close to the warmth as I can get. My mom brought home a special log from the grocery store, one that is supposed to make the flames change color, so I’m watching the log very intently, waiting for the flames to change color, but they don’t. It’s okay, I don’t mind because it’s evening, it’s cold outside, and cozy in here with all of us in the living room at the same time.

My mom and my Doug (my stepdad) are murmuring on the couch as they pass a joint back and forth, and I can’t really make out what they’re saying, I just hear the pleasant rise and fall of emotions, and as I’m watching the fire, I notice how the flames are almost dancing along with their conversation. It’s lulling me, putting me in a trance. I can feel my body and my brain kinda emptying out, and I get loose and languid and stretchy like taffy as I take turns aiming my face and then my toes toward the fire, kinda like I’m a marshmallow toasting myself.

Then slowly, slowly, slowly a shimmer of a trace of a thought bubbles up from somewhere deep inside of me, and as it courses up from my gut it forms into a question, and this question grows bigger and bigger as it rushes up to my brain, so big it’s overriding everything, the fire, the pleasant conversation . . . it consumes my entire being! Like, all six years of my life have been for this moment, to ask this question, to receive this answer! So I suddenly sit straight up, overcome with urgency, and I call out “Mom!” to cut through their cloud of pot smoke, and they instantly stop talking, like they know! They know we’re on the precipice of something momentous, and they’re part of its unfolding! So I say it again to make absolutely sure I have their full attention:

“Mom! Mom! What does fuck mean?”

My Doug starts spluttering and coughing and making a gulping sound like he’s laughing, but I brush his reaction off because, whatever, I knew he wasn’t up to the task, this moment of truth anyway.

But my mom fixes me with a cool gaze and, without a hint of hesitation, says, “Intercourse.”

Intercourse. Intercourse? And now my sense of the momentous is faltering because whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t this cryptic, sterile, three-syllable word. I say, like I’m trying on for size, “Fuck means intercourse. What is intercourse?”

My mom hands the joint to my Doug, and without missing a beat, says, “Intercourse is the word for sex.”

Oh. Oops. I hadn’t intended for that word to come up on this toasty night in front of the fire, but I push forward. “Fuck means intercourse means sex?” The words slip around my brain like a logic puzzle. A short word for a long word for a short word? So confusing. But I’m trying to wrap my brain around it, so I say, “So when adults say fuck they mean sex.”

My mom snorts. “More like when they say sex, they mean intercourse, but yeah.”

“So . . . when Doug calls the mailman a fucker he’s really calling him an intercourser? When he told that guy in the car the other day to fuck off, he was saying intercourse off?” This strikes me as absolutely absurd; this can’t be what adults are saying to each other, but my mom confirms it, “You got it, kid. Pretty much.”

My mom has waves me off and they’re back in their own world, rolling another joint and laughing with each other. All I can really do is go back to my place by the fire to mull it over. I feel like my mom has told me something important, even though I’m not totally sure what it is, although I do know that there’s no way other kids my age know about this, and that strikes me as powerful, like I have a little bit of power.

The more I think about it, the more I realize my mom has just given me a little loophole to cuss. Because if fuck means intercourse, then intercourse means fuck! And I know exactly how to use that—and who to use it on! In fact, when I go to school tomorrow, I’m going to be a hero because I’m going to walk up to the meanest girl in school, Brenda Parker, and I’m gonna say, “Hey, you know what, Brenda? Why don’t you just intercourse off?”

And that’s exactly what I did.

All right, this was a lot of sharing, so I gotta go either take a fast walk or a short nap, then get back to producing some storytelling shows—you know, being brave anyway, and stuff. xoxo, Amy

(Page to Stage is an ongoing series where I unpack the craft of translating my written work into live, oral storytelling, and what that process teaches me about writing, performance, and courage. As always, I’d love to hear from you: like, comment, share, tell me what you’d like to know more about, and commiserate with your own storytelling adventures. I like knowing I’m not alone in this big, big world.)