I suggest that I should go first, as I open the vacuum flask and pour us both a coffee.
The dog sits down, exhausted after chasing rabbits unsuccessfully across the fields. The hot coffee steams comfortingly in the cool, autumnal air.
This is going to be difficult. Very difficult. We should’ve had this conversation years ago, but talking about this isn’t easy for someone like me. Conservative parents. Boys-only school. You get the idea.
It doesn’t come naturally to her, either. Single child. Overbearing mother. Catholic girls’ school, run by nuns.
We’re quite a pair really. But don’t get me wrong, we get on well. Really well. We laugh a lot. And we can readily talk about other important issues—houses, kids… getting a dog.
Shortly after it happened we agreed that it might be a good idea to talk and I guess this seems like the right moment.
And no surprises on the subject of the conversation. You’ll probably laugh. We refer to as it. Such an inconsequential, dismissive word to describe the most intense, fun, intimate, delicate, raw of activities—sex.
I bet we aren’t alone and across the world there are millions of people who dodge the word, referring to il, es, el, esso.
Talking about sex is something we’ve never really done. Ever. We just do it. Usually at weekends. Sunday mornings, mainly. And it works all right. Most of the time. Though if I’m honest I can find it a bit bland and repetitive. I’d like to do it more. And spice it up a bit. But the very fact that we are still doing it at our age is a bonus, I suppose.
That’s why I like a little—how shall I put it—visual stimulation. Accompanied by the occasional, cheeky wank.
I don’t’ feel guilty...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Jonathan Aldfrith
