I was on the phone with George, who lives in another city, which is a good thing, I think. If he lived here, he'd be the kind of guy who would be trouble for me.

For example George has a girlfriend, yet he has no qualms about flirting and having sexy phone conversations with me. I would almost feel bad about it, the fact that George and I talk the way we do, except George sounds like he really hates his girlfriend.

"She's boring in bed," he told me once. "And she's bitchy a lot of the time. The other day she was here and I kicked her out of my house she was being so bitchy. I'd had it. I just told her to leave. But then I called her a few hours later and she was nice again."

"So why are you still with her?"

"I think it would be more effort to break up with her than it is to stay with her. She's a little crazy."

He said it all in a matter-of-fact way, not asking necessarily for my sympathy, but ensuring that I wouldn't think he was an asshole, either. And I don't feel one way or the other about it. If he doesn't take it seriously, why should I? But it makes me glad he doesn't live here, because I'd be more likely to take it seriously then.

The other night I spoke to him again for the first time in a month. It was late, and it was quiet, and it had been raining all day and I felt calm. I'd also had a few drinks but hadn't gotten drunk off of it. I was just feeling sort of focused, and I felt like talking. I called him and then I hung up after two rings, decided against it, I guess. But then he called me back immediately so there we were again, having a chat. After a few minutes the conversation quickly dissolved into a discussion of porn.

"I don't really watch porn," I said. "I've certainly seen it in the past, but it's not something I would actively pursue. And anyway I don't know what kind of porn turns me on anymore. Visually, that is. I'd be more likely to go for the written word. But what happens on the page wouldn't necessarily translate into what I would want to happen during the actual act."

This discussion went on for a while, me talking about what I liked or didn't like. It was sort of a breakthrough for me, the realization that you didn't have to have a consistent sexual aesthetic. And it seemed silly that I hadn't thought about it before. I know sexuality is complex, but I've never broken my own down quite like that before.

George tried to get me to tell him more details about what I liked. He was most interested in what I was reading, what kind of language got me hot. I refused to get into specifics. I found myself unable to say it out loud, either from embarassment or because I just didn't want to give him anything he could use. Eventually he started suggested certain things and I would either agree or disagree as to their appeal. But I didn't want to go too far.

I told George about this writer I had interviewed once for a sex book I worked on a few years back. He was some sort of oral sex expert who lived in a small town somewhere in the Midwest. I think he was supposed to be in his early sixties, and at the time I was probably 28. I interviewed him for a while, and then he tried to engage me in a more intimate discussion and I balked. After a while he went on by himself, pontificating on the definition of a sexual act.

"In a way, you and I have just had sex by having this discussion," said the writer.

"No we haven't," I said.

When I told George this he said, "Because you don't have sex with dirty old men in their sixties."

"No, I don't."

But anyway that idea has stuck in my head, the definition of a sexual act. If I were to accept the writer's understanding of it, then I'd have to say he forced himself on me. But maybe he's a little bit right, and so I was being a little bit careful with George that night.

After a while I tired of the discussion. It seemed like George was being awfully quiet, and I was doing all the talking. I usually get sick of the sound of my own voice after a while. Everytime I'm engaged in a conversation I hit a moment where I can hear my voice so clearly. It's as if everything around me has drowned out, sort of like when you're talking loudly at a party and someone suddenly shuts off the music, and the entire room can hear the last bit of your sentence. You're always saying something like, "And then I fucked him," or "The doctor said it would go away in a week." (Or at least I am.)

"So that was interesting, George. Thanks for listening." I said. And it had been interesting. So many fucking layers in humanity, I thought.

"You're gonna go?" he said. He sounded disappointed.

"Yea, I'm tired. I'm going to go to sleep."

"Well I guess I'm going to go finish masturbating then."

"Oh," I said. "Well. Good luck I guess."

I hung up the phone and blushed. I didn't know. I hadn't known. Had I?

archives | w-w home | mail