I am not a prude. I don’t get uptight over nudity. I support gay marriage. I have nothing against “doing it” with the lights on. I am not in favour of self-deprecating my 41 year old body. I love it and all the pleasure it has given me to date. Nope, I cannot say I am a prude. I say this with the same Nixon-esq, “I am not a crook” vigour, possibly without the peace sign waving or air quotes that have since developed while impersonating his famous pledge. I am not a prude.
Looking back fondly, I’ve had loads of sex. Great sex in fact. In reality, so much good sex that I’ve stayed with bad people because of good sex. Though in retrospect, I may have cut those ties short by a year of two if not for the great sex. When I did break free to healthier situations, I was happily rewarded by the karmic nature of a new partner and even better sex. Yay me! I have no problem saying this as my 67 year old mother doesn’t read my writing anymore and my father is due to have cataract surgery when this goes to “print”. My husband? Well he’s used to me regaling my gleeful narration of historical sexual strolls of yester year.
To be perfectly open, as you can read that I am, I have no issues around sex. It’s fun. Orgasms, role-play, sexy outfits, diverse positions, toys, tricks, gizmos, gadgets, and gratitude galore, I’m comfortable with it.
But. And a big but indeed, I recently had an issue. Like mini-shirts, after the age of 35, sex in broad daylight, may be where I draw the line. Sure spice it up, but recently I saw a close friend of mine, conjuring up some famous Alannis lyrics, in a carwash not a theatre.
Now, I realize I am forced to feel, she oughta know better. Somehow on a brilliant sunny Saturday between the Tim Horton’s drive through and the adjoining self- use car wash, sending the kids inside for crullers while she bobbed her head up and down knocking the hanging crystals around her rear view mirror sending a chaotic myriad of prisms my way, I felt my inner prude.
Certainly add the parsley sage rosemary and thyme, just spring for the auto car wash. It’s inside and your head boppin’ will be disguised by suds and seclusion. Much better than local Real Estate paper draped over the passenger chair.
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