As seen in Huffington Post
I have always craved an Algonquin table of my own, a place where a group of people can get together and be freaking hilarious. I want to be Dorothy Parker without the bad ending. However, I would have one rule about my table once food is delivered — my guests can’t talk about sex.
It’s not that I have an issue with sex, I think it’s the best carnival ride provided in our physical amusement park. However, I do find it to be an awkward topic for table discussions.
Growing up, our dinner table was the forum for sharing stories. It was a place where we came together and had one another’s full attention. We started each meal by holding hands and praying. Sometimes we sang the Doxology, but mom would frequently start laughing in the middle of it and that was that. Once we had spoken to God, it was time to take turns sharing the funniest, most captivating stories we could recall.
During my adult years, I’ve continued to value the conversations and stories shared over breakfast, lunch and dinner. But recently, the meal topics seem to be shifting in a direction that impacts my ability to eat.
I’m not sure if 50 Shades of Gray is responsible for blowing open the doors of sexual conversation, but lately I have either been a part of or overheard other women talking in restaurants about very specific, sexual moments.
I’m sorry, but when I’m trying to eat my bowl of clam chowder I don’t want to hear about the killer orgasm that you experienced right before coming to meet me.[quote button_text=”Tweet the Quote”]As I’m buttering my bread, I don’t want to know about your Brazilian wax job.[/quote]
And as my phone vibrates with a call, I don’t want to hear a list of the best vibrators on the market or exactly how each is best used. And, no, I never attended one of those banana parties. I find the physical components of sex to be pretty simple; it’s not rocket science.
I guess I simply don’t want sex to be discussed during a meal. I only want to talk about one orifice at lunch, and that is the mouth because it plays an important role while eating.
If you are compelled to share your sexual stories, then at least make it humorous so I can get beyond the visuals in my head. Tell me about the time you hit the horn while having sex in the car, or the time your husband rolled out of bed, or the time a mother-in-law walked in on you.
I’m sure women’s ability to talk about sex in the open is liberating, offering us a way to say, “See, we can be as obsessed about this as men.” So, kudos to all of you who are discovering your sexuality in new, descriptive ways. Just don’t be surprised if your conversation with me is a little awkward.
“So, how are you doing today?”
“Well, Donna, I used my new vibrator this morning and had the best orgasm of my life.”
“Really? OK. Could you pass the salt?”
I don’t know how to respond to a declaration like this. Am I supposed to applaud? Provide a wolf whistle? Ask if you are now seriously dating your vibrator? Congratulate you? Say, “You go, girl?” Purchase the same vibrator and follow-up at the next meal with my experience?
What I usually do is look around the room to see who is listening. Because, quite frankly, I don’t remember ever hearing a man in a restaurant say, “Hey, guess what? I masturbated this morning in the shower and it was awesome.”
So, my Algonquin table group wouldn’t be allowed to talk about intimate moments because I find it to be a little awkward and unappetizing.
If I were Dorothy Parker, here is the poem I would write about providing sexual details:
Ode to an Orgasm
I would love to hear how you’re doing,
To meet you for a meal,
Just know that when I’m chewing,
Exclude what makes you squeal.
That’s it. I simply can’t carry on a conversation at lunch that involves the mention of private parts. I realize that animals do it. Birds and bees do it. But I bet that they don’t talk about it at mealtime.
I love sex. I love the entire experience, but I’m a highly visual person. If you’re talking about your husband’s penis, my hot dog will lose its appeal. If you begin talking about your dry vagina, I’ll find myself adding extra calories and dressing to my salad.
So, if you come to my Algonquin table, please table the sex talk and all discussions about anything below the waist. That includes foot fungus.