I had dinner with Cammy last night and it turned into yet another exchange that really left behind all sense of propriety and decency. But that’s why I do this: so I can share with the world the state of discourse (not to mention, intercourse) among the lonely and wretched middle-aged populace. It also made me realize that I need more men in my life. All my male friends have moved away. Thus, I can only be inappropriate with women and that can only lead to bad things.
It started out normally enough. She’s an ex-colleague. We get together now and then to talk about our careers. This time, though, Cammy had something else on her mind. She had been seeing a man she met online (it’s where all this kind of trouble starts now). It hadn’t lasted long and so there was no heartbreak. But still, she was down. The sex had been fantastic.
“We did things I never did before. It was completely off the hook.”
We were eating Italian. The appetizers had come. Scallops sheathed in bacon.
“Well,” she said, leaning forward, “he likes to be dominated.”
“Oh, God.” I couldn’t imagine it. Cammy is tiny.
“It was exhausting.”
“Anal?” I asked, getting bored from the lack of real information.
Cammy paused. She didn’t quite answer the question.
“We were just about to take a trip to a sex shop to buy a strap-on.”
She covered her mouth, embarrassed. I pictured the happy couple on a nice winter stroll; they could have been going to the museum or a café. But this is New York in the 21st century, so they were going to the Pink Pussycat.
“For who? Wait, for you?”
“I’m sorry, Cammy, I just can’t picture it.”
“It was the best sex I had in years.”
“I hear you, sister. I’m in the same boat. I was in a sexual wasteland for two years, before Nadia came along. I don’t want to go back there.”
Nadia and I had recently broken up. Let me rephrase that. She broke up with me after calling me an “obnoxious American.”
“Nadia was completely uninhibited,” I said. “I mean, for god’s sake, she let me come on her face.”
Cammy shook her head in disgust.
“No, no, I couldn’t do that.”
“Really? She loved it. I remember the first time I did it, she looked up at me and she said, ‘I was wondering when you were going to do that.’ ”
“Not for me,” Cammy said. “It’s too demeaning.”
“That’s so narrow.”
“Maybe, but it would take a long while with someone before I let them do that.”
“Jesus, you were going to demean your boyfriend with a strap-on.”
“Do you have conversations like this with everyone else?”
I swirled my fork through the penne and sausage.
“No, of course not.”