Saturday, 1 May 2010
Actually, let’s NOT talk about sex.
Let’s talk about people who like to talk about sex.
When I’m having a conversation with other men, the subject of sex rarely crops up. The only time guys talk about sex is when a lovely woman happens to wander into the vicinity and even then we barely scratch the surface. A typical conversation may go something like this:
FIRST GUY: Look at her. She’s tasty.
SECOND GUY: Phwoarr! I’d give her one.
FIRST GUY: Me too.
And that’s about it. The conversation may vary slightly, depending on whether the woman is in the room and/or in earshot or perhaps if we are talking about a lovely creature like Beyoncé or Megan Fox – but it doesn’t get much deeper than that.
On the odd occasion, when a guy has had a date or something like that, the conversation may get a little deeper:
FIRST GUY: So what was she like?
SECOND GUY: Fabulous.
FIRST GUY: Did you shag her?
SECOND GUY: Yeah – I gave her a right good seeing to.
FIRST GUY: You didn’t shag her did you?
SECOND GUY: No!
And that really is it.
Women, on the other hand, always want to talk about sex, which I find really odd. Men are driven by sex and want it all the time, yet don’t like talking about it at all. Women don’t seem to want sex all the time yet they want to talk about the intimate details of every second of their encounters with men.
Let me give you an example.
When Mrs PM and I first moved in together, one of her friends came round for tea. I knew her but not very well. Faced with an evening of girl talk, I decided, out of a morbid sense of curiosity, to stay in rather than go out. There was a football match on TV and I assumed that the two girls would eat their food and leave me in peace to watch the game while they retired to the dining room to discuss flowers, chocolate, bunny rabbits and cats.
In order to protect the girl’s identity (and myself if ever she reads this), I will call her “Lozenge”.
When Lozenge arrived, Mrs PM was in the kitchen putting the final touches to her fabulous lasagne leaving me to chat to her newly arrived friend. We had a nice little chat about life, the universe and everything, everything that is apart from sex. The subject wasn’t broached. The subject did not rear its head. The subject stayed in the shadows exactly where it belonged.
A few minutes later, Mrs PM summoned us into the dining room where a bottle of wine was uncorked and a lovely dish of lasagne was presented to us with salad and a few other trimmings.
As I prepared to eat, the subject suddenly changed. Within seconds, the subject of sex came stampeding out of the shadows like a demented beast and threw itself into the conversation like a demolition ball crashing into a house.
“I’m having a few problems with Bodger,” said Lozenge. “In the bedroom.”
Bodger was her boyfriend (not his real name obviously), and I had met him a couple of times. He seemed like a nice chap, the kind of chap who would never have initiated a conversation with me about the bedroom – unless he was decorating it of course.
“Ooh!” said Mrs PM, excited by the immediate change of subject. “Do tell.”
My brain screamed at me, ordering me to tell them to change the subject and talk about it later. Unfortunately my mouth was full lasagne and all I managed to do was choke, splutter and dribble like a mutant baby, with lasagne dripping down my chin.
“Are you alright? “ asked Lozenge, suddenly concerned.
“Yes,” I lied. “It was a bit hot that’s all.”
I was happy. My spluttering faux pas appeared to have worked. By choking and dribbling I had diverted the topic of conversation. Sadly, my euphoria was slain within seconds. Mrs PM diverted conversation back.
“So what about Bodger in the bedroom?” asked Mrs PM completely oblivious to my embarrassment.
“Well,” continued Lozenge. “He’s got this problem.”
I coughed again and a large chunk of lasagne exploded from my mouth and onto the table.
”Are you sure you’re OK?” asked Lozenge.
I nodded. “Yes, I’m really sorry about that. This lasagne is lovely though, don’t you think? You’ve excelled yourself this time, dearest. Do you cook a lot Lozenge? What’s your finest culinary creation?”
“Shut up,” said Mrs PM scowling. “What about Bodger?”
This time I could do nothing. Lozenge started talking giving, giving graphic details of what happened in the bedroom, including all the gory details of who put what where and for how long. I heard details of everything – every act, every motion, every word uttered in the throes of passion, every problem, every deviation; every single second was described in intimate and graphic detail.
I tried to interrupt but my protestations were brushed aside by both the girls. Mrs PM asked all sorts of probing questions that, quite frankly made me wince with embarrassment.
But do you know the worst thing of all?
I was told everything about Bodger from his physical prowess to all of his anatomical details. Lozenge described his fetishes, his preferences and all of the embarrassing spoken details.
My lasagne ended up down my shirt as I choked, missed my mouth, dribbled and spluttered. I don’t think any of it found its way to my stomach.
I was a mess.
After ten minutes of sex talk, I had had enough..
“ENOUGH!” I said staring at the two women. “I KNOW Bodger but I don’t want to know all of intimate details. Ladies, do me a favour. Change the subject and resume this when I am not in the room.”
Lozenge stared at me.
“What’s the matter? Are you embarrassed?” she said.
“Too bloody right I am,” I said. “Men don’t talk about sex often – and when they do they DO NOT give a blow by blow, second by second account of everything that goes on.”
They laughed. Both of them.
“Well you should talk about sex,” said Lozenge. Mrs PM agreed.
Both ladies then told me in no uncertain terms how insensitive men were and I had to suffer a tirade of verbal abuse on behalf of my gender.
After a couple of minutes of this, I cracked.
“I’ve had enough. I’m going to be a man and watch the bloody football.”
As I left the room, my head held high, I was mocked mercilessly amidst derisive laughter.
It just got worse. As I watched my football match with a can of beer, I could hear the two of them giggling like children; I knew they were taking the piss.
Eventually, Lozenge left, but before she did she came up to me and hugged me goodbye.
And I swear that before she left, she eyed me up and down like an inspector scrutinising dodgy goods. And my brain went to red alert.
“Do you talk about us?” I asked Mrs PM.
“What do you mean?” she replied.
“You know – do you talk about the bedroom?”
“No – not really.”
“What do you mean “not really”? You DO, don’t you?”
“Of course not,” she said giggling.
That said it all. She did and she probably still does. For a while afterwards, I couldn’t look any of her friends in the eye – I simply couldn’t. I walked around like an embarrassed arsehole for months, wondering what Mrs PM had told her friends. Every time one of them smiled at me I felt that they knew something intimate about me.
Poor Bodger had had his secrets betrayed to me by Lozenge and I had only met her a couple of times. I can also imagine that Lozenge had relayed my secrets to Bodger, spilled by Mrs PM over a glass of wine.
The next time I saw Bodger, my face must have betrayed me; I had conversations with him but steered the subject towards manly pursuits like sport, cars, fighting and hunting. He must have thought I was a complete arse.
It’s not the first time this has happened and when in the company of Mrs PM and her friends I have to switch off and think “LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA” as they descend into the depths of depravity and spill the beans over their antics in the bedroom. Or I simply leave the room carrying my plate of food with me – which gets me into trouble sometimes – particularly when I am in a restaurant.
Some of her friends simply do not care and now I know why some of them laugh at me when they see me (or at least that’s what my paranoia tells me).
In conclusion, I would just like to say one thing:
Let’s NOT talk about sex. NOT EVER!!