Key of G
For women the best aphrodisiacs are words. The G-spot is in the ears. He who looks for it below there is wasting his time.
A fellow writer sent me this Isabel Allende quote last week - sensing, I guess, that I would somehow find a home for it.
I say, just what the guys need here - a little more anatomical confusion.
(Not that the ears are probably that much farther off the mark than where they were looking before. Assuming they were looking. Simply because, as with most other situations in life, it's not like they're just gonna STOP and ASK for DIRECTIONS.)
When I repeated this quote, and polled my guy friends about it (a discussion that nearly emptied the very pleasant restaurant where we were eating though a few nosy nearby diners actually scooted closer), I got answers ranging from a confident, "it's on the north face" to "uhhhhh, it's kinda spongy?"
A few of my friends are doctors, and they provided very precise information, but I'm sure it's nothing you couldn't get off WebMD.com. (For all I know, that's where they found it.)
Mostly, the consensus was that they were open to an occasional suggestion. (We still thought Allende was maybe guilty of a sweeping generalization.)
I mean, it's not that I am NOT consumed by the white hot blaze of a thousand suns for men who have a way with words - because I am. Sure, I have a few routine physical specifications, but that list is pretty short and relatively insignificant-"smart and funny," on the other hand, are absolute and non-negotiable.
It's just that there's a time and a place. And I don't want to be exchanging witty repartee on the day's political events, or the economy, if I have more corporeal goals in mind. As I said last week, my life is verbal enough.
And there's a reason I'm not up for any middle-of-the-night pop quizzes. For example, the correct answer to "WHAT'S MY NAME?!!" is NEVER a pregnant pause, followed by "ummmmdon't tell me"
It's not that I'm confused by volume - believe me- it's just that I have a lot on my mind. And if you've shown up for my "multi-tasking" abilities, trust me when I say things are only going to go better if my hands and mouth are free.
See, I conduct these little polls and surveys-mostly for my own amusement - and then I write about them- adding in a few personal observations-and then I stupidly and naively wonder why people confuse me with my column.
I wonder why I get emails so pornographic they'd make a Navy SEAL blush.
I wonder why I got so many obscene phone calls that I can't even have a land line at my house anymore.
People always feel like they know me, but in general, my own, honest-to-God personal life is, in fact, excruciatingly private.
What I'm NOT, is mysterious. (And there's a big difference.)
Some girls can successfully cultivate that air, but I'm not one of them.
I don't think there are a lot of my ex-boyfriends holed up in some smoke-filled basement, exchanging 12-step laments about how "I just couldn't figure her out." I am nothing if not brutally specific.
One of my pals tells everyone that I supply all my new boyfriends with a four-color brochure, outlining my favorite florist, the jeweler where I'm registered, and lists of books, movies, and websites detailing positions and techniques I prefer.
He's also fond of saying the world is my gynecologist. (And he strangely means it as some kind of compliment.)
It isn't true though.
Because, while my attitudes expressed here may seem unduly hedonistic (especially to, say, my mother God rest her soul. Because this just might be the one that finally does her in), my real life is far more shockingly conservative (not to mention dull).
On the page, I may seem, if not slutty, at least. outgoing.
Whereas in REAL life, I have "entertained" precisely one sleepover guest in the past three years. That's not a typo. (And everyone read enough to know how ill-advised THAT turned out to be. Enough to know that "entertaining" was my word, not his.)
Truth be known, my actual lifestyle in my 30s (ranging from celibate to monogamous) would all but qualify me for a convent. (Admittedly, it'd have to be a convent that was pretty hard up for recruits, and they might need to install a 24-hour automated confession booth, and a smoking area.and maybe a vineyard and a Prada outlet nearby, but I think I could pass.)
I only bring this up, because I had to admit some of this to a good friend of mine last weekend who was having girl trouble.
His trouble is, he can't keep them off him.
Of course, the peer pressure he gets from the guys is extraordinary, where they all believe "volume, volume, volume!!!" is the goal. "Quantity over quality" would NOT be a misrepresentation of their position
Which is fiiine, but just not for him.
So this is where I (of all people) had to step in and tell him it's okkkk to wait to find out if you like somebody before they see you naked.
And to reassure him that sex is-surprisingly enough- not a very good way to get to know someone (and that IS his goal). Because what you usually get to know is, "Hey, I'd like to have some more sex."
Not that there's anything wrong with that. ('Cause I'm not one to judge...)
I've just come a looong way from my college days where sex seemed like a finite supply to be enjoyed before it dried up. We were like camels storing up for a trek through the desert. Some had humps larger than others, of course. Some were dromedaries. (And there I'm speaking for at least two or three entire sororities.)
These days, I don't even kiss on a first date. It seemssomehow, intrusive. Personal, even. Whereas in college, the only observable code anyone appeared to be aware of was "never swallow on a first date."
Call us old fashioned, but that was considered forward.
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