-ary. Kidding. Let’s get it out in the open while we’re at it– missionary: the most unsatisfying position in the book. Those poor people back then (before comfortability and confidence in ones body) when picking up a girl and sleeping with her missionary style was the climax of sexual adventures.
An insight into the hairy past presented itself to me while I stopped into a local RVA bar to visit my boyfriend and hang around (drink free beer) until he was cut (done with his shift.) For those who have yet slash never experienced the necessary life lessons battered into ones soul by a restaurant job, you will taste the bitter truth that lies behind the scenes. Another time though, I’m on a roll with this).
So, being mindful as to step into the non-smoking side of the restaurant/bar, I casually panicked to find somewhere to sit. You know, when you try to look like you have control, carefully choosing which seat to sit your sore, squat tired ass, but actually frantically calming yourself down as to avoid siting in three different locations before resting between to older men at the bar. I needed a clear view of my man of course, so I can stare in admiration as he asked hipsters what craft beer would suit their non mainstream enjoyment. You got that kind of hall pass as a girlfriend– making borderline creepy googley eyes at the sexiest man in the room. Reaching six months in our relationship, I’m also allowed to freely ask why the hell his fellow mousey bartender keeps grazing his back and hips as she scooted by to reach for a glass or for all I know, a handful of his balls.
Sipping my blonde beer that purposefully tasted the least like an IPA as the drafts would allow, I quickly made new friends with my neighbor bar loungers. ”
“You watch basketball?” he asked.
“Yeah, most definitely not”, I smiled.
Moments later (because who has any concept of time in a bar and in the presence of beer) Paul, Steve and I shared backgrounds and stories of college while taking bites of a thick layered chocolate cake, without any forks. *As a server, one should observe. Mouse girl would have noticed the possibility of us sharing the cake, bringing three forks, “Just in case, *smile*”. However she was too busy devising her plan as to how she could blow my boyfriend behind the bar without me seeing. I was on to her.
Skipping to the fact that by this time, Paul, a bald business entrepreneur, having graduated college somewhere around the time I was born, who annoyingly supported the ugly truth that men do in fact age way better than women, was complimenting my Juicy Couture perfume but indeed “wasn’t hitting on me”. My new friends began to reminisce on their fratty days by answering my initial question– “What was your slang for “hooking up” with a girl back then?”
Amidst the both of them spewing memories of drunken nights that were primarily focused on finding girls to “pick up”, I acquired the indecent visual of ten minute lackluster missionary position sex, hairy bushes, and big nipples. (I don’t know why big nipples came to mind but it just seems to fit in with the 80’s stigma– big hair, big pants, big nipples.) Quite frightening was the immediate connection I made from this history lesson, one of few I’ve actually paid attention to, to my mom, who is relatively the same age as these me. I enjoy finding common ground and relateability between mother and daughter, and in this instance it was sex. But now having imprinted a semi-disturbing image in my head, the point the men made was that girls are more sexual, confident, and comfortable with their bodies they are these days, which I gathered as that girls are more likely to sleep with fifty year olds. I then attributed my mothers signature weary expression of my past casual-philandering to her having grown up with a severely more conservative youth. Things were private and meant to stay in the bedroom. Somewhere, at some point, maybe by the influence of Captain Morgan himself, girls started flashing their perky boobies from apartment balconies while shouting, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!” therefore shedding all sense of innocence and a dress-code. In lieu of such freedom, doggy style and the countless positions that make me question the un- lifelike flexibility of cartoon characters in “The Sex Position of the Day” books became the norm.
Inviting them to free crab soup and dessert and excellent service at my place of white collar and black tie torture, hoping to meet again, my two amigos and I parted ways like old collegues, and later that night I hit a mailbox.
My mission is to entertain and seduce with my words, stories, thoughts, and feelings of the usual psychotic happenings in my life.
Enjoy.
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