when I was delivering a parcel I’d taken in for them. The place had smelled strongly of onions,
and there was an ugly standard lamp in the corner. A few years before that, one of the receptionists had hosted a party at her flat
and invited all the women from work. It was a beautiful flat, a traditional tenement with stained glass and mahogany and elaborate cornices.
The “party,” however, had merely been a pretext, a ruse of sorts to provide her with the opportunity to attempt to sell us sex toys.
It was a most unedifying spectacle: seventeen drunken women comparing the efficacy of a range of alarmingly large vibrators.
I left after ten minutes, having downed a tepid glass of Pinot Grigio
and parried an outrageously impertinent question from a cousin of the host about my private life.
I’m familiar with the concept of bacchanalia and Dionysian revels, of course,
but it strikes me as utterly bizarre that women should want to spend an evening together drinking and purchasing such items,
and, indeed, that this should pass as “entertainment.” Sexual union between lovers should be a sacred, private thing.
It should not be a topic for discussion with strangers over a display of edible underwear.
When the musician and I spent our first night together, the joining of our bodies would mirror the joining of our minds, our souls.
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