Thursday, December 4, 2008

I Forgot I Was A Pervert

It's late, and my roommate and I are lying in our respective beds, she reading, me wasting time on the Internet (as always, yes?). Out of the blue, Sara (a pseudoynm, of course), asks me if I've ever read a romance novel.

The closest thing that I have would be the massive "Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander", which has all the trappings of historical Regency romance except, of course, because I'm reading it, also features a gay-leaning bisexual protagonist and a menage-a-trois theme running through the whole thing. Why would I waste time reading anything else? I decided to mention it anyways, and even threw in there that it was a bit sexy.

I'm still unsure of her reason for wanting to read a romance novel, though she tried to express it to me: she rarely read anything other than murder mysteries, and she felt she'd like to have a romance novel on her shelf, have that experience, I guess you could say. We giggled, I counted off the things I disliked about the cliched romance novels that have Fabio on the cover- the bodice-ripping alpha male, the predictable gender roles (I love butch/femme, of course, but give it to me queer or fetishy!), the awful purple prose. Well, weren't they sexy? She asked. In my opinion, no, they weren't. They might have sex in them, and a good deal more than a lot of other books, but the whole thing was intended to make you sigh and your heart swell with that lovin' feeling. If you wanted sexy, I maintained, it was called erotica. And then we were on the topic of erotica, me clumsily fumbling around trying to act like I don't know pretty much everything about erotica.

More back and forth, I suggested she try some light chick lit, which she promptly rejected when I read some of the titles and their synopses. So I finally said a mental "fuck it" and offered up one of the books in my collection, the previously blogged Amorous Woman. I mean, it was sexy but also romantic and sad and funny, truly a tale of a modern woman. Of course, the first thing my roommate's eyes latched on was the girl in her underwear on the cover, and the emblazoned words "adults only". Eeek.

But why should that be a problem? This girl is no virginal thing. Why, it was only last week that she'd gleefully shown me the new piece of lingerie she'd bought to surprise her boyfriend for his birthday. We'd talked fairly frankly about sex.

And yet I lay there listening to her squeal in shock and disgust, and silently cursed the fact that I'd handed out my secrets. I mean, I guess I've always believed that everyone was secretly pretty pervy. We don't usually talk about it, but everybody masturbates, everyone has some form of erotica, whether it's their fantasies or something more explicit. I keep my kinky stuff to myself; I know enough to not nonchalantly talk about BDSM and genderqueerness. But a little plain ol' vanilla sexin'? C'mon!

So, yes. I've introduced my roommate to erotica, outed myself as a pervert, and I stupidly feel guilty about it. Why can't I just say, all smiley and sassy "Girl, I love me some sex! There ain't nothin' wrong with it, you should give it a try!" and finish with a wink? Why must I stammer and laugh to cover it up?

Huh. I seriously need to remember that not everybody is coming from the same mindset as me. I mean, I've had a long, long time to become acquainted with porn and erotica . . . other people, Sara included, probably needed something gentle, and I offered up hardcore. D'oh!

No comments: