Let's talk about what's been on my mind lately: SEX - and not because I haven't had any recently but because somehow my circle of friends is exaggeratingly having plenty of it and quite honestly bragging too much about it. It's like the stars in the sky have suddenly collectively gotten together to exclusively form some inexplicable metaphysical cliquish constellation conspiring against me. Yes, I'm a victim of a sting.

Don't get me wrong, I am absolutely not jealous; I just don't understand the uncontrollable need to kiss and tell. And I'm not just talking about the friends who indulge in a little ride on the sexual promiscuity wagon but more so about the friends who are in a solid relationships.

I mean it's to the point that I not only know the frequency of their sexual activities but as well their itinerary - the where, the what, the how and the who. And when it's not verbally expressed then I get the sign language treatment namely, a cocky wink, a snarky rolling of the eyes, a smart-ass smirk, and the incomprehensible coded hand-speaking gestures. Either way, it's too much information and certainly not the best feature of our friendship!

What is it about people that urgently make them want to tell the world about their latest bedroom exploits? Why do they have to scream it at the top of their lungs - isn't that what they were just doing anyway and shouldn't they consequently be worn out enough to simply shut up? Where do they find the nerve to insufferably make me endure the graphic detailed account of their episodic mini porn interludes?

Here's clue: what happens in private needs to stay private -- the jig is up!
Plus, and most importantly, I absolutely do not need the visual. I already have trouble sleeping and certainly don't need to add "nightmares" to my list of nocturnal problems. Thanks but no thanks!

What is mind-blowing to me is the fact that they automatically assume that as their friend I have to be in on it and keep track of their sexual workout record. Not only am I not an accountant but neither am I their personal trainer.
Here's me signing a common expression -- closed captioning translation:  I don't care!  

Sex is like the celebrity-race syndrome - it's an ego-driven desperate vanity cry for unnecessary attention. Somehow as I'm writing this, I am instantly reminded of an anecdote a PR colleague of mine told me about this wannabe D-List celebrity who pathetically harassed a young barista at a coffee house to get a complimentary latte. Annoyed at the fact that the young lad had absolutely no idea as to whom this self-proclaimed celebrity was, the latter unabashedly logged online to show him an IMDB page ironically displaying a very scarce abundance of film/TV credits.

Just like it's always infallibly the D-listers who seem to be inflicted with the Napoleon complex, similarly it's always the friends who truly have nothing to show for whom continuously harass me with their pandemic fifteen minutes of X-rated fame. Without getting sanctimonious, it's hardly good image uplift for them.


It deeply pains me to see that some of my friends are in utter denial of their reality and not only boldly lie to me about the grandeur of their performance but evidently do not tell themselves the truth about their own lives.

Dare I suggest that their obsessive need to boast about their sexual accomplishments is vastly a delusional psychological attempt indicative of their need to compensate for every aspect that makes up the rest of their dull lives?

And contrary to popular belief, women are actually worse than men in the public display of no inhibition department. When it comes to bragging about shagging, women and, more specifically lesbians, hold the gold medal. I'm not just talking out of my ass here! I've been on both sides of the "girlie talk" panel and, hands down, the gays are ahead of the "talk amongst yourselves" category.

At the risk of stereotyping, I've personally come to the conclusion that while straight women do tale-tell about their sexual encounters, lesbians, on the other hand, vaunt about sex regardless if it actually happened or not. It's not that I am prude but you have to admit it's not really kosher to openly divulge details of intimacy especially when the subject being publicly exposed is your significant other. In my book that indiscretion qualifies as total lack of respect.

more on next page...

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(continued)

Admittedly, I'm absolutely not opposed to sharing intimacies with my entourage.
As a matter of fact, I am the first one to recognize the potential educational value of summoning a committee to open the sex dialogue, but only when brought to a personal panel of "sexpertise" -- which in my case boils down to one individual only: Kristina.

Everything I ever want to know and/or share about what goes on in the sack, I ask my friend Kristina. She's my Google-like human version - she's always available, highly reliable, timely, dependable, and never fails to have all the right answers when it comes to my lesbian sex life or lack thereof.  Just like Yoda, the force is always with her. She actually knows me better than I know myself which makes it beyond comfortable to confide in her.

In a very uncanny way, Kristina is very much like my confessional for all things queer and gay. She helps me through my adventurous trials and tribulations in lesbianhood as my relationship advisor and sex education mentor. And we cover the entire lesbian sexuality spectrum with its many intricate rubrics including but not limited to: sex toy-malfunction, bed death ordeal, performance deficiency, G-Spot mapquest locator, sex-drive disparity, position discrepancy, oral sex tricks, abnormal sex trips, normal sex tips, cheap lesbian dates, non-existent lesbian dates, flirting techniques, pick-up lines, heartaches, headaches, breaking up, making up, making out, top versus bottom, getting under, getting over, getting through, getting plenty and not getting any.

Speaking of inflation versus recession, I needed an impartial mediator to weigh in on my general entourage's overwhelming display of sexual pretension, and get some sort of sanity restitution. Evidently, I called upon the wisdom of my Jedi Master, Kristina.
Unlike my cortege of show-off friends, I will not publicize the private details of my intimate conversation with Kristina. All I can say is that I am beyond grateful to know her and to have limitless access to her genial dementia.


And while I still refuse to make the necessary adjustments to adhere to and assimilate with what I call the "forced acculturation" phenomenon -- people's constant need to report on their activities - I can certainly accept the fact that we have sheepishly entered an age of a new type of cultural imperialism.

Vastly promulgated by the "dot com" moguls in social networking savoir-faire also known as MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter, we have regressively catapulted ourselves into an era of mass exhibitionism. Sadly now nothing is ever subtly suggested anymore but rather trivially exposed with nothing left to the imagination.

So be my guest and inject me with your viral online and/or real time libertine practices.
For those of you who wish to keep me posted, updated, log me in, tag me, vlog me, blog me, wall- message me, Facebook friend me, throw it on my face or even put it in my face, feel free to contact me at: www.GetYourFaceoutofmySpace.com
 
THANK YOU!