LET’S TALK DIRTY

The Best Sex of My Life

Why on this night is this sex better than on other nights?

It was the best sex of my life. I hear it all the time. Do you know who is always talking about having the best sex of their life? Newly minted single people — people who just got out of their marriages.

I know what you married people are thinking. I’m not forgetting about you. You want to tell me you’re having great sex? I don’t care. Nobody cares. People don’t want to hear about married people's sex lives.

Mazel tov if you are married and having the best sex of your life, but keep it to yourself. It’s gross. Married people are like everyone’s parents. Get under the covers you pervs. Lock the door. My therapist and I have enough material to work with.

People who are cheating are also having the best sex of their lives. They better be or they’re asshats. People who are screwing around are either having the best sex of their lives or they are completely in love. There is no in-between. It’s true love or mind-blowing sex.

Listening to people talk about the best sex of their lives is like listening to a dog, who recently learned to talk, explaining what it means to be in heat. Fido is like, “This is why I am always humping the couch. I’m out of my mind. It’s transformative.”

I was talking to a friend who told me she just had the best sex of her life — twenty minutes before we met for drinks. It was like having a drink with someone who had just finished running a marathon while I only watched. She smelled like fabric softeners from a sex shop.

That’s why I’m writing about this. I don’t drink so when I’m out for drinks, my buddies get loose-lipped and I’m Deep Throat. Well, maybe they are Deep Throat, but I’m not pointing fingers. I remain sober as a nun and receive their confessions.

I’d say sober like a priest, but that’s a punchline for a different story. Nobody ever looks at a nun and mutters “perv.” I made friends with a nun in Guatemala. I asked her what she did when she was horny. She said, “I play a lot of volleyball.” Made sense. Play ball!

When my friend said the words, “the best sex of my life” I instantly morphed into a teenage boy. I stopped hearing anything else she said. What did she mean? I wondered. What made it the best sex of her life?

Images swirled around my head. I imagined my pretty dressed-up friend, undressed, crawling around her kitchen floor, growling like an animal, her oversized boyfriend twirling her around like a baton. I was bad at this game.

I had no idea what kind of sex my friend considered the best in her life. I had no idea if she was limber, creative, daring, or she just liked a big dick. I didn’t know if she favored S&M, role play, or rolling in food. I didn’t know if she preferred sex toys or only original factory model body parts.

The middle-aged woman part of me wondered if it was polite to ask her what salacious acts she participated in half an hour before. In college, we gave explicit sexual details to our friends because we were studious, ripe to learn, and we wanted to make sure we weren't missing anything. Everything we were learning in college was preparation for life after college.

Once you hang out with married people for a couple of decades, hearing about sex is on a need-to-know basis. As a rule, I am not attracted to my friends’ husbands. I don’t know if it’s a healthy deterrent or a fact, but my friends' husbands are gross. They’re like relatives and imagining them doing the nasty wakes up the baby vomits in my throat. Not delightful.

When I say hearing about my married friend's sex lives is on a need-to-know basis, I mean we only talk about it when an alarm clangs. For instance, if someone’s partner starts acting differently in bed, blurts out the wrong name, wants something newly creepy, or suddenly lacks desire. We treat the information like a new rash or a weakened piss stream.

Is he cheating? We wonder. Did he finally consummate with his work wife? Is he depressed? Is he an alcoholic? Is his dormant gay self finally expressing his true needs? We’re gathering info but it’s not sexy. Nobody’s titillated.

The best sex I ever had friend was onto the next subject or elementary school equity. Because I was possessed by a 14-year-old boy, I was still giggling about her confession.

What’s so funny? she said.

I was imagining you having sex, I said. I’m trying to figure out what the best sex you ever had looks like.

She choked on her sake, then grinned.

It was on the kitchen counter, she said.

Ah, location. I could relate to this. I wash an entire sink full of dishes three times a day. I can’t tell you how often I Clorox the counters, especially since the pandemic. To use those counters for something other than food preparation was inspiring. She deserved a medal. Maybe a parade.

Wow, I said. It’s nice to know your counters are so well made.

We bought a new house this year. I think about the longevity of items like counters, wood floors, plumbing, air-conditioners, and cabinets. If someone tells me they are successfully humping on top of a counter, I think, “it didn’t break or bend? Good quality. Remind me to get the brand of your counters.”

Imagining my friend having sex didn’t feel pervy. She’s one of those people who looks fully dressed even when she’s not. Certain people look more dressed than other people. You know what I mean.

There’s this local man we’ve nicknamed Fabio. He rides his bike everywhere. I don’t know where he lives. I’m guessing he’s either a couch surfer or a bed surfer. He’s beautiful and looks like hot Jesus. His eyes twinkle. His smile makes you hold your breath.

He looks like the kind of guy you could walk up to and start groping, seamlessly, then walk away, like filling up your gas tank. He looks more naked with his clothes on than my friend looks, naked. Imagining him having sex feels dirty, but imagining my friend naked makes me laugh.

The best sex of my life, she told me.

Wow. I said. I wanted details. When are you going to see him again? I asked.

Never, she said, giving me all the information I needed.

How is this night different from all other nights? Because it’s one night only, one night only, we only have till dawn. One night only one night only. Come on come on come on.

Chose Laughter, MuddyUm. Thanks, BOF for editing.

Thanks, Dreamgirls and Henry Krieger for the lyrics to One Night Only.