Quirkee.com - Just Leave Me Out of Your Sex Life, Thank You!

You are here: Home

Quirkee Voices

Accidental Comic

Just Leave Me Out of Your Sex Life, Thank You!

Written by Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant

Wednesday, 19 March 2008

I do not want to know about your sex life. Really. I mean it.

If you had a mistress for two years because your marriage was falling apart and you figured after all that nagging, you deserved a little something something, please keep it to yourself. If you somehow scraped together $80,000 from the office petty cash fund so you could pay for hookers half your age because you're an almost 50-year old man who is rapidly losing his hair, kindly zip it. And if you've just had a penis extension and now all the ladies are happy in bed, please, please don't feel the need to e-mail me and let me know. (What, by the way, is a penis extension? Is it like a hair extension and you clip it on? And how does that work to make the ladies happy?)

I have no interest in what it takes to get you off. You can bite your lover's ear until it bleeds or dress in an orange mohair dickey and a clear plastic raincoat for a rendezvous with your mistress. You can have someone tickle you with seagull feathers still attached to the seagull until you're writhing with ecstasy. Just do it and don't inform me. I've got things to do. Groceries to buy. A lawn to mow. Dogs to feed. A planet to save from global warming. You know, stuff. I hardly have time to have sex myself, so your expecting me to make time to read about your escapades is really pushing my buttons. And not in a good way, either.

Teenage girls are coming down with sexually-transmitted diseases faster than you can say "Like, totally"? Don't wanna know about it. I decided not to have children for this very reason. (Well, there were other reasons too, but at this point, I've forgotten what they were.) A Catholic bishop admits to sleeping with his brother's wife? That sounds like something he should go to confession for, and I am like, totally, not qualified to dole out Hail Mary's or Our Father's.

Can't keep your pants on in the men's room in the airport? Sounds like you need a pair of suspenders to me. Perhaps check at the airport gift shop. But don't tell me about it. Tell your therapist (after you tell your lawyer), but no one is paying me $150 for a 50-minute hour to listen to your issues. I have my own. Do I tell you about them? It should be tit for tat. Okay, maybe I should rephrase... I won't show you mine if you won't show me yours.

And I don't care if there's lawbreaking involved either and that "justifies" a sex scandal being treated as "news." Laws are broken all the time and we never hear a peep. But feed the media a story about married man sleeping with a gay escort at the Days Inn and they get much giddier than while covering, say, the bailout of Bear Stearns. Look closely on the news desk and you'll see paper towels soaking up the drool any time a nice juicy sex scandal rears its ugly, uh, head.

The fact of the matter is, most of us have sex occasionally. And maybe it is mostly boring, uninspired, and clumsy. And maybe, in an attempt, to perk things up, we bring in a mechanical bull, a vat of Jell-O, and a Taser. But at least we have the decency not to talk about it while you're eating dinner.

If it makes me a prude to remain unaware of what's going on behind the bedroom, bathroom, locker room, coatroom, barroom, courtroom, romper room, interrogation room, war room... doors, then so be it. I'd rather be able to look at the faces in the newspaper and on my television screen without thinking about what kind of extracurricular sexual activity they've been involved in right before showing up for the interview and whether they washed their hands.

Thank you for your time. You may now go back to whatever it is you were doing. But if it involves a length of garden hose and a blindfold, please don't tell me about it.