“Did you squeeze her boobs?” I’d ask, in between mouthfuls of adobo and diced pineapples. My lunch companion would smile, and mention something about her last ex having a sizable rack, too.
“But you were in the car, who straddled who?” I’d frown, trying to imagine them–two girls humping each other in backseat of a sedan–as I fork my way through the chicken on my plate. The chicken, curiously, would be the breast part.
For the past few weeks I have become a repository of everyone’s little stories of making out and getting head. During the evenings I’d meet with another friend and we’d talk about condom and lube brands over salad.
He’d slap me on the arm noisily and quip, “that was how hard he was ramming into me last night!” And with a flourish he would make all this gestures as I inquire about his partner’s endowment.
Then I’d ask them about the hard questions–when are you going to say the L word back? What if you are no longer on the same page? Do you want a boyfriend who’s as jeje as he is good in bed? They most certainly wouldn’t have the answers.
And that’s okay, because they’re just young and free and bright and wanting to have fun.
Like me. But every time we’d finish the conversations, when we’d part for the night and I’d be left to my own thoughts, I’d think about myself and my utter lack of recent (s)exploits to tell.
“It’s because you set such high standards,” they’d tell me, and add that if I keep insisting that someone should have read A.S. Byatt before going to bed with me then I’d totally shrivel up and forever lose that certain bodily function.
In this day and age when not getting laid has become really more an occasion of choice rather than circumstance, I, like more and more young people with similar dispositions and inclinations, find themselves stumped over whether to be carefree or prudent about having sex.
Is good, regular romp a necessary complement to your twenty-five-plus-grand paycheck and quad-core smartphone?
Blame it on the Sperry ads, which keep showing us people in nothing but beachwear and boat shoes. It’s the over-sexualization of everything, from facial wash to canned tuna.
I’m happy for my friends, that they’re getting their regular dose of endorphin releases. And I’m even more elated that they share their stories with me. At least their side of the fence is lusher and greener.
But even drought isn’t all bad. Dry grass ignite faster, and from a distance, they can look golden.