I like dick, have been a huge fan for ages. While I have a devout preference for washboard abs and Wrangler butts I rarely drop a name or give anything beyond the most generic details as in we had a great time or he was smoking hot.
When I was 19 I had a friend, we'll call her Ann*. She was a couple years behind me in school so when I was attending the Tiniest Community College in Nevada, Ann was finishing up high school.
One day, after classes, I walked over to my friend Nancy's* house and Ann was there. Ann was regaling us with tales of her wild vacation spent in California.
Ann was 18 going on about 35. She smoked, drank, was overweight and latched onto young men like one of those lampreys they made us dissect in biology. Ann started telling us about some guy she'd hooked up with in California. Then Ann went into detail, a lot of detail. As in where he put his right leg, where she put her arms, how much and how long the thrusting went on, how many times she blew him, etc., etc.
(Ewww!)
Nancy and I were both sighing, rolling our eyes and glancing at the clock before Ann finished burning our ears with every freaking detail of her sexcapade. Had the phrase been coined back in 1985 I would have shouted "TMI!"
Too Much Information.
I mean, seriously. None of us were virgins. We didn't need a blow-by-blow account of Ann banging her cousin twice removed to fill in the blanks. Had Ann taken a more tactful, succinct approach we could have moved on to more important things: like driving to the store for Big Gulps and playing PacMan.
Eventually Ann married husband No. 3 or 4 (I forget which) and moved permanently to California where she is probably grossing out a friend right at this moment with TMI.
This was the first time my psyche was seared by the noxious fumes of Too Much Information.
A few years later, while visiting another friend in that very same town, I offhandedly made some remarks about the guy I was seeing at the time. Afterward, I wished I had never opened my mouth. The only reason I did it was because a) my friend was about 10 years older than me and far more experienced sexually, b) I was trying desperately to "fit in" with her and her worldly friends and c) I was an idiot who didn't stop to think what would happen if my TMI blurt ever got back to the guy I was seeing? (It did). Wouldn't he be a little offended that I'd seen fit to divulge details about him with a friend he'd never met?
I'm pretty sure that's the only time I ever took the wrong turn down TMI Avenue and ran my mouth about stuff I should have kept between me and my amour at the time.
Flash forward to Seattle 2004. I was working a retail job with a bunch of twentysomething guys. They were a mixed bag of skate punks, UW students and rock musicians. One slow day, the subject of anal sex came up. No idea why. Someone made a joke about our uptight, "anal" supervisor who had just left for lunch. The next thing I knew, Hipster Dude* was going into detail about the last hipster chick he ass fucked. Just like that. Under the unflattering fluorescent lights of work, he was listing the pros and cons of butt fucking. This wasn't really anything unexpected coming from him. Hipster Guy was after all, God's Gift to Womankind, and he behaved accordingly.
The shocker was when one of the nice guys joined in the conversation. Nice Guy* was in his late twenties and had been married for a few years. I had met his wife. She was a nice gal. So when he started talking about his experiences with ass fucking I KNEW instantly he was talking about his wife. No pun intended, but what a shitty thing to do. In an effort to not appear naive or less experienced than Hipster Dude, he started engaging in TMI. Afterward, Nice Guy always looked a little guilty and worried whenever our gaze met, probably because he was wondering if I would say anything to his wife the next time I saw her. (I didn't).
A few years later in Seattle, I made a friend, who at first was an awesome pal. Then she started to tell me about her husband and her marriage. The TMI detector in my brain started ringing. Oh shit, not again.
My new friend, Christine*, hinted that prior to marrying her husband -- who makes great money -- she was gay or at least rowed hard for the Isle of Lesbos at one time. That's fine, she tried one lane on the freeway and now she's in this lane because she found the man of her dreams.
One day Christine announced unprompted that her husband doesn't do anything for her sexually. At all. I guess in the entire time they've been married he's never rung her bell. I have no idea WHY people like Christine dump personal stuff like this in my lap, I'm guessing it's mostly because they're seeking sympathy. Which is fine, to a point. That's what friends (and I think more appropriately therapists) are for. As a longtime happy Singleton I'm baffled and perplexed how you could date, live with and then MARRY someone who doesn't do anything for you sexually. That's a question a good therapist should ask Christine because I don't wanna know and I have no plans to take up marriage counseling.
Today, thanks to the last onion skin of Puritanical mores being shed from Western Society, it's okay for us to talk about our sex lives. Occasionally it's a good thing. People with serious sexual dysfunctions are able to find support groups, non-fiction books and there's always Oprah. The hated Double Standard (guys are experienced, gals are pure) that has dogged women for centuries is finally disappearing behind us as we assume control of our sexuality. Gays have found acceptance and can celebrate their unions in most progressive areas.
There's a tribe in a remote corner of China that's resisted indoctrination into the standard one man/one woman marriage scenario for hundreds of years. The Musuo don't recognize marriage, virginity, etc. the way the dominant Chinese culture around them does even after the Mao Regime tried to force them at gunpoint. Women are free to accept as many male visitors as they like and visa versa. They only have one rule: nobody is allowed to ever discuss their sexual encounters, doing so is the height of bad manners.
Back in America, all of this fairly recent liberation doesn't mean it's okay to let the wheels come off and spew every tiny detail to casual acquaintances. Seriously, if you have vaginal dryness during sex why are you telling me? I'm not an OB/GYN.
Personally, the older I get, the more down low I'm keeping it. I don't want to ruin the memory of a good romp with unwanted comments from friends, neighbors, etc. And it isn't just the possibility of avoiding ridicule if the relationship doesn't pan out. I don't want any reviews of my sex life when it is going well either. If I may be conservative for a moment: it cheapens the experience. If I care at all about the guy I'm sleeping with, I'm not going to invite comment from anyone who isn't sleeping with him.
If you just met a hot guy, things are going well, feel free to tell me and I'll virtually high-five you. But spare me the intimate details.
So who am I hooking up with these days?
As Salt-n-Pepa said, that's none of your business.
* (It should be obvious, none of these people's real names were used.)
