Let's talk about sex, baby...

Did I say something wrong?
Oops, I didn't know I couldn't talk about sex
[I musta been crazy]

Human Nature (Madonna)

So here it is, my friends: the topic you have all been waiting for…. SEX! But before you get excited, thinking I am going to turn this blog into an illustrated soft porn site, let me disappoint you. It aint’t gonna happen. Not because I have forgotten what sex is. But because:

a) I have got some style.
b) I am a respectable married suburban lady these days. (Boring, isn’t it?)

So really, I am not going to talk about sex as such. Not today, anyway.

What I wanted to talk about is the lack of talking about it.

In my single days, sex was an important topic of conversation.

At university, my best friend and I fancied two guys we studied with. I still remember mine, and the dark brown leather jacket he was wearing. The way I felt dizzy every time he brushed by to get to his desk.

My girlfriend lusted over his friend, and we would spend hours discussing what we liked about them, how they made us feel, and what we wish we could do to them, should we not have been lacking any sexual experience at the time. Sex was a prevailing topic of our daily discussions. We joked and laughed about it… We argued whether Jack Nicholson in The Postman Always Rings Twice was sexier than Mickey Rourke in 9 ½ weeks… We plotted our adventures and fed our imagination on innuendos and fantasies- most of which never materialized. Hey,it was fun.

In my later, post university single years, I would spend more hours- this time over a glass of Bailey’s and endless Marlboro lights, talking to my Red Haired girlfriend about our sex lives. What, why, who, how…nothing was a taboo.

The RHO visited me last year and, sitting in a London bar somewhere in Soho, over Mojitos and Marlboro lights, I felt I was sort of back in time.

Except, this time she was the only one who was talking.

I am not sure if it is the married life that changed my ability to openly discuss intimate things with my girlfriends, or the cultural influence of where I live. I have a number of girlfriends these days. Most of them are married with children: my mummy friends. And we talk about a lot of things. But we rarely discuss sex.

Sometimes, I am curious. I look into my friends’ faces and wonder: What were you like before you had children, a husband with a good job, and a big house? Before you worried about nappies, Christmas stockings and new curtains? Were you a ‘nice girl’ or a bit slutty? Were you wild? Did you try drugs? Did you ever kiss a girl? In your pre-suburban life, did you talk about sex?

I am curious, but I will never ask.

And yet, there are so many intimate details I know about my new friends. I know how painful their nipples were when they breastfed their babies. How many stitches they had. Their IBS. Their diets. Their waxing habits. Their stretch marks.

And sometimes, they surprise me. We go out, we dress up and wear more make-up, have a few drinks and then, without husbands and children around, I finally notice a cheeky grin and a sparkle in their eyes. And I know they must have a few sexy stories to tell. Maybe one day?