By Anthony Paull
Oh, how I love my boyfriend; he makes the best death threats. And no, not the kind you think, but rather the kind where each time he’s sick, no matter how acute, he’s ready to set up house at the nearest hospital, where he can be waited on hand and foot. “Baby, can you come over and let out the dog. I gots sick,” he moans on my voicemail early this morning. “I’m headin’ to the emergency room. Uuuuuuh.”
Alarmed, I quickly ring his cell, where his English mother answers, stating he’s doubled over in pain with food poisoning. It appears the spinach on his pizza at lunch had been riddled with E. coli, prompting him to suffer a massive attack of crippling cramps, diarrhea, vomiting and dehydration. Not particularly sexy, I know. Well…except he is at the hospital, and I have been searching for a fun, new venue for us to have sex.
Gross, I know, but I’m human, horny and impulsive – and I’m not about to deny my urges because it won’t go over well with the masses.
You see, I’ve grown tired of the same bedroom, bathroom and kitchen table routine, and recently, I’m hot on the idea of taking my temptations to the public. Is that so odd? Really, haven’t we all wanted to get pumped somewhere we might, but probably won’t, get caught? Isn’t that the modern-day equivalent of having a virtual finger shoved up your butt? Doesn’t danger lead to a more dynamic climax? Or am I merely really, really, really reaching?
Oh, who cares? I’m not responsible for my crazy state of mind anyway. I’m blaming these sick, sadistic and sultry thoughts on my friend, Ana, whose erotic adventures seem so much more interesting than mine.
Of course, I’m completely jealous. With Ana, nothing is sacred; she gets to knock knickers with her boyfriend anywhere and everywhere. The public parking garage, the beach, the back seat of her BMW, the Zone Bar aisle at the health food store – baby, it’s all good when the thought of being brazen enters her mind. And if her boyfriend utters no? Well, she simply ties him up. It’s easy; scarves are in this season.
“But seriously, it’s not like any sane man ever technically refuses anyway,” she confesses.
“Well, what if he just got done puking into a bucket at the hospital?” I ask, over a cup of coffee in the heart of downtown, near the public park. “Do you think it would be wrong for me to ask him to pleasure me a few hours later? Be honest? Is that sexy?”
Bewildered, she blinks three times and smiles, blind-sided by the question. “Outdoor sex is always sexy,” she responds, with trepidation. “But I suppose there are exceptions. Maybe you should consider somewhere else.”
Too late, I already have this ridiculous thought in my mind, and I want to try and make this hospital bit work, even though my friend Steve calls to tell me I am acting crazy. “Ugh, you’re not going to have sex with him at the hospital. Stop acting stupid.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, readying myself with a new designer pair of underwear, hand-stitched from France. “I used to do this kind of stuff all the time in college.”
“Whatever. It’s not cool,” he replies.
“Why? Because you didn’t think of it? Well, I’m sorry if I’m ahead of the curve.”
“Yeah, you’re just so cutting edge,” he quips. “Why don’t you screw him in a port-o-potty while you’re at it?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m telling you, your boyfriend is not going to find sex at the hospital cute or sexy. And neither are you.”
This is what I’m thinking about as I drive into the hospital parking garage, where I place the car in park and solemnly stare into the rearview mirror. Sitting alone, I realize Steve is right. This isn’t sexy. Rather, it’s a pathetic attempt to find that very same rush I had in college, where public sex in a car or a study carrel at the library was a prerequisite. Since turning 30, I find myself longing for that very same fix, having grown tired of being quarantined to a boring bedroom because I’m supposed to act like a grown-up.
The truth is I don’t feel grown up. I’m just as ready, willing and able to have a public sexual encounter, except I can’t find time to plan for it due to working 50 hours a week, along with taking care of other adult responsibilities.
“That’s why it’s not sexy,” Steve tells me, when I call him to say I chickened out. “You’re not supposed to plan it out. It should be spontaneous. That’s what makes it thrilling.”
“So what? Am I just supposed to screw him whenever the mood strikes me, wherever we may be? What if we’re not prepared and someone catches us?”
“That’s the one good part of being an adult,” he astutely replies. “You can afford bail.”