Now I ain't no expert, but fellas, if you're gonna talk dirty to your woman, you got to talk with authority. Cause anything you mumble ain't gettin' done. You can't be in bed all unsure like, 'uh excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, uh I was wonderin' if ma'am I have a question."
So my buddy Rockford was telling me the other night about this ad he saw for this... device.
He swears this ad was in Harper's, but... given the nature of the...device...I doubt it.
This "appliance" boasts an added feature...which is a remote control.
I was, frankly, baffled.
I paused to reflect before asking, "Geeeeeeez, how lazy do you have to be?"
He explained, "well, I think the controls are for...you know...your partner...to, you know, use."
How lazy does he have to be??
"Like. In public," he elaborated, explaining some of the virtues touted by the ad.
I say, no good can come of this. (Or to be more specific, define "public." A movie theatre's one thing, but a cocktail party. I've already been crossed off enough guest lists in the last year, thank you very much.)
We all have our limits. Like when Rockford saw me at a party awhile back, chatting with a guy I used to know, he asked, "so what was wrong with him? good-looking, good job, six figures..." (as if that's my criteria, when anybody who's observed my dating history knows better).
And against my better judgment, I confessed, "didn't I tell you about that whole web porn thing...?"
"Ohhhh, c'mon now Kitten," was his condescending response, "you know we all look at porn, even if we don't admit it to our girlfriends."
Well yeah. Duh.
Looking's one thing.
Starring in it is quite another.
From what I understand, this guy (normal, conservative, Ivy League, post-doc) had his own website (and from what I also understand, it lent all new meaning to "streaming" video).
In truth, I never looked it up...OK, to be more accurate, I did, but it was ...down...at the time. (An uncommon occurrence, I'm sure, for him.)
The guy told me about all this at a party-very casually-as if he was just elaborating on his job history or something. (Though come to think of it, I believe he was compensated. Hell, it might've even been part of his work-study in grad school for all I know. I like to hope it was more...sport. Or a hobby? Then again, I personally know a LOT of girls who would pay to see him naked.)
People don't generally accuse me of being shy, but I gotta say, this was more information than I needed.
Among close friends, I can and will say anything (like when one of my buddies sustained a sports injury last week that he was afraid might interfere with his weekend "capacity" as "host" to an out-of-town guest, I was suddenly a cross between the Shell Answer Man and Dan Savage, suggesting a wide array of embarrassingly specific options that would make a longshoreman blush).
But my private life stays pretty private.
And I was just never able to look at this guy (Porn Guy) quite the same way ever again (or I guess I could, but it'd run me $19.95/minute).
Not that I think he was auditioning me. I don't flatter myself.
I think people assume because I write about things that seem personal, I must have an outrageous lifestyle to match.
In fact, I pretty much live vicariously through my friends' sex lives.
And for all I know, they're just making it all up.
One guy I know, for example, tells me "smacking" is really in right now.
If done right (he says), it should also make a rather loud noise (he demonstrated, cupping his hand).
"Huh..." I mused.
"You mean, like abuse?" I quizzed further, secretly horrified-fearing he was expressing a propensity for domestic violence.
No, no, no. Nothing like that, he assures me. "More like an..."
"...expression of enthusiasm?" I clarified helpfully.
Yeah, he allowed. More like that.
My evil party twin's the one who told me about spinning (and I'm forwarding all future emails on that subject to her.)
I guess whatever happens between consenting adults is fine as long as they don't frighten the horses-but in truth, I am rather easily shocked, because, in real life, I am the proverbial camel of the sexual desert. Or maybe it's dromedary? Whatever.
And that's fine. (I'm not taking resumes.)
As my evil party twin puts it, people are confused by the fact that "you're 36, and never-married on purpose. That you haven't had kids on purpose" (yeah, Thank God and Wyeth Laboratories).
She's right, but I also think she's being charitable (as she is paid to be).
If somebody isn't married by 40 (given that most people are, actuarially speaking), there's probably a good reason, and I'm no exception.
For example, y'know how some people will eat just anything (apparently, there's now a TV show devoted to it in fact)?
Well, I won't. If I don't see what I want, I prefer to quietly starve. Volume dating ends at the front door.
In reality, I've dialed zero on the ole pink telephone with precisely one guy this decade. And believe me when I say, he was not exactly clamorin' for more. (I have the forlornly full, sad, gray Lifestyles box- mocking me from my dresser drawer-to prove it. Don't worry: I plan to responsibly donate it to charity before the expiration date.)
Extrapolating from that, and my prolonged self-imposed droughts from the 90s, I guess last fall will do me till about 40.
Observe, as my hump dwindles through the ages.
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