Pillow Talk

My girlfriends and I love talking about our men du jour. Men, the bad thing about women is they disclose ALL. You really don't want to know what we say. You really don't want to know. You may cringe.

Men, think about those dick pics you send us. You don't think we exchange our iphones to make comparisons? Hell, the last guy's dick pic is a screen saver on my gay friend's computer. He's very thankful. It is, after all, a pretty dick.

Moving right along, we discuss sex and pillow talk. What men like to say or not during sex. Hell, our conversations dissect orgasms. As I mentioned earlier, you really don't want to know what we talk about. It's very perverse.

And I love it. As do all my girlfriends. It's a huge distraction from our tedious and sometimes tragic lives. These conversations make us laugh and giggle. In actuality, it's shit talk. But it never ceases to amuse us.

When younger, I was one of those women who loved to talk during sex. Yes, I plead guilty to that. Sadly, my conversations were mostly stream of consciousness and quite distracting for the guy would stop in mid-thrust.

"Did you really say what I thought you said?" he asked, puzzled out of his mind.

"Oops," I replied.

"Do you really believe that quantum mechanics of physics is a topic I want to hear NOW?"

"It's the only time I've your undivided attention," I responded.

Talking during sex was my litmus test of a guy. I had one lover way back who enjoyed having sex with me for one reason: I made him laugh. It wasn't the best sex, but man, we howled like wolverines. After a while, though, I had to break it off: the pressure to continue performing stand up while lying down got to me.

I switched my litmus test in my 30's to a standard date question: How do you feel about mail order taxidermy? Usually timed when they took a sip of wine. If it didn't go up their nose, then I knew I had to make a fast exit.

Like a guy I dated back then. He did the entire romantic thing: flowers delivered to my apartment, bottles of champagne, dinner, theatre. Oh, he was a romantic. Until we were at the movies and I turned to him to ask that one question. It was my litmus test of sanity and fuckability.

"How do you feel about mail order taxidermy?"

Without batting an eyelash, he responded, "I believe in using ALL of the animal, not part of it."

Stunned into silence, I then burst out into laughter. I finally met my match! That thought was quickly dispelled the following second when he went into graphic detail about using parts of the animal. I realized then, "Houston, we got a problem here."

Afterwards, I rapidly ditched him and wouldn't respond to his phone calls. He continued to send flowers with apologetic notes which didn't sway me. That one scared the bejesus outta me.

Years after Hannibal Lechter, I got involved with another man who, of all things, worked as a covert spy. I'm not shitting you. Really. It's a very long and convoluted story that's contained in my upcoming novel which may take years to revise. This one was different: I took him home to meet the parents. My father was very amused by the stories of the variety of men I dated: herpetologist, actor, scientist, banker, mortician, musician, dancer. I can go on and on. Yet, he wasn't amused when he met the spy. Especially since Dad worked military defense.

"Get rid of him! I can smell a spook a million miles away!" Spook was not a racist term in my father's lexicon, being a liberal Democrat. It was military slang for a CIA agent. "You're a good girl. What the hell does he want from YOU?"

The spy said to me, "Your dad's quite an intuitive sort."

The two of them eyed each other with hate and distrust. The parental introduction didn't go as planned. Needless to say, through this guy, I found out firsthand, no matter who the guy is, after sex he literally spills the beans. Ever since then, I can honestly say those stories about sex with spies and divulgence of confidences are true.

Today, older and a mite wiser, I no longer entertain my lovers. I don't converse with them in bed. It may have something to do with the fact that they're considerably younger than me. It may also have something to do with the fact that these are not relationships, or relationship material. One thing is evident: I really truly miss those wild conversations.

Hence, the blog.

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This blog and its posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


Anonymous said...

You know, I would never, ever consider sharing details of a sexual encounter with anyone. Perhaps I'm a gentleman after all.

maura stone said...

Surprisingly, most men are. Then again, the conversations with the girlfriends constitute shit talk, nothing to be taken seriously. Almost like the conversations on twitter.