Apparently I am a disgrace to modern women. As if wasting my University degree by staying home to clean toilets wasn’t bad enough, now I don’t want to discuss my (or anyone else’s) sex life. That makes me immature, no fun to be with and a giant step backward into the olden days of blushing and fanning oneself should the topic even be hinted at.
It’s not that I am a prude. Or at least I don’t think so. I don’t care what anyone does in the privacy of their own home. I also don’t care if they want to discuss it. I just don’t want to be a part of the conversation. Maybe that does make me a prude.
I don’t know why I am like this, and honestly I kind of wish that I weren’t. Maybe it’s my Catholic upbringing with the guilt and the burning in hell and all that. Or that my parents were a little too comfortable (and still are) with talking about it, and it scarred me for life.
*brief pause while I gouge my eardrums out and look around for one of those Men In Black memory zappers*
Believe me, I really wish that it didn’t faze me to hear about your favourite sex positions. I would love for it to be not at all awkward the next time I see your husband and that’s all I can picture. Isn’t picturing people naked supposed to make public speaking more comfortable? What about picturing him under my best friend, still with his black work socks on? That seems to suddenly eliminate my ability to form full sentences. Or I end up saying something like “Nice socks. I can see why you like to keep them on.” Awkward.
My co-workers used to make a game of it – some kind of challenge to see who could make me staple my own hand to the desk. Even my mother thinks that it is hilarious to watch me squirm when she starts divulging disturbing details about her late-seventies boyfriend. *more mind bleach* She has got herself on some kind of pornography mailing list – I really don’t want to know how that happened – and she carried the very graphic envelope all over her building showing it to anyone without cataracts or a pacemaker. The brochure didn’t bother me – but the show & tell around the building is something I could have done without. It was like a pornographic Jehovah’s Witness door-knocking session.
So what’s the deal? Am I ridiculous and need intensive therapy, or has the world gotten a little too free with what they share, and maybe we could use more discreet people like me? And if you do talk about sex with someone, and you can tell that they are uncomfortable, do you keep talking or do you pick up on the discomfort and respect their boundaries?