let's not talk about sex

There’s a club on Queen Street West called club Wicked. I read some reviews of the place when it first opened and – as perhaps expected – the reviews described a cheesy, painfully lets-have-fun-fun atmosphere, and an overall snickering vibe that wasn’t exactly sexy.

Allegedly, first timers have to fill out a form and are given a tour of the place. There’s the packed main room where things are usually nervous or, alternatively, nervously exhibitionistic. Upon your first visit, if the Wicked hosts declare that you’re hot stuff, you get a $60 membership to the special area where you can hook up. There's PVC, zippers and bad hair.

I’ve never been. I probably won’t go. It sounds awful. It sounds as if the only appropriate reaction is looking away.

But I’ve been to other places that most people would consider cheesy or giggle-making. I’ve chuckled too. I’m sure I got chuckled at. Once, in one of those places, I saw an old prof. He was wearing a skirt. I was wearing probably not much. We got over it quickly then and had a nice chat. I never went back to that club. I was too mortified. But I used the story to combat the funny-shit-that-happened-to-me anecdotes at parties. Perhaps by making fun, it relieved me from feeling guilty, silly, er, sexual?

Part of me thought that going to one of those places was somewhat embarrassing. It was stupid. What’s next? Club Wicked? The Everything About Sex convention? The point is that I don’t really know why, often, my own reaction has been embarrassment, giggles and eye-rolling. I don’t even know if I really was into that stuff (fetish) or if I used to go merely as an anthropologist. All I know is that I wold never casually mention what I used to do on weekends, back then. See, I think with talking about sex, there are three ways: ignoring it, overdoing it or overgiggling.

On the other hand, it’s always okay to endlessly yammer on about cottages, bad customer service at the Gap, yoga and shoes, IKEA and where to have yummiest lunches. It's okay to discuss RRSPs, Cuba, kittens and outfits.

"Looove your belt!"
"Twenty-percent off at the Gap."
"And how is Timmy?"
"Oh, he's finally opening up to the idea of masturbating in front of me."

Talking about sex is like dealing with a worrisome, drunken uncle at the Thanksgiving dinner. You only have these options: Kick him out, laugh at him or just pretend he’s not really peeing in your pansies.