So. Sex. I’m in favour of it, generally. I have to be—I’m a Newfoundlander, and my heritage dictates a level of sexpertise that far exceeds that of the average Canadian. We proudly take the top spot in the Maclean’s magazine Canadian sex survey just about every time they do it. What can I say? It’s an island in the North Atlantic; it’s cold, rainy, foggy, or sleety three quarters of the year, and we spend a lot of time indoors, often behind closed ones.
Now out here on the west coast, people tend to take full advantage of the kinder, gentler climate. They bike and hike until their nut brown thighs of granite glisten in the sun. They smoke that famous B.C. ganja wherever they please. Cripes, in the time it takes me to walk to my office, I’m half high from the fumes wafting up from the waterfront parks. I knew about the obsessive exercise and excessive dope smoking within five minutes of moving here. What I didn’t realize is that some folks think it’s perfectly acceptable to do all kinds of things en plein air.
Case in point: A regular, run of the mill day at the office. There’s a large wall of windows in my head honcho’s headquarters, and facing those windows are a series of balconies. I was listening intently to the daily dose of wisdom from the chief when a splash of hot pink caught my eye. I turned and saw a spindly young man flanked on either side by a young woman. Once I realized that the pink flash was his Speedo, I processed the bare breasts and the evolving ménage à trois. The last thing I remember before my eyes burned out of my head was a girl’s head drifting toward the fuchsia package…”Right, Sir, ahem, well, I’ll just get back to, um, whatever it is I do here in that place down the hall … where I sit and do … stuff.” Sweet Jaysus, I’ll be having pink Speedo nightmares for the rest of my life.
Maybe I’m a tad prudish, but I ask you, is there no decency left under the sun? My immediate reaction was to race over there and advise them that they were on full display to an entire workforce, imagining their complete mortification, but the general consensus around the water cooler was that they were well aware and didn’t care. Well, I never, and I mean I never.
Despite what misconceptions folks may have about the racy French, this is not something I ever saw in France. Sure, if you hit the beach or poolside, it’s all nipples all the time, but, for the most part, discretion rules. In all my time in Europe, I never once came across group sex on the street, no matter how hard I looked for it.
All this is a sure sign that I’m getting old, as if the creaky joints and the arrival of love handles weren’t signs enough. But truth be told, even when I was young and snappy, this kind of display would have caused some colour to rise to my cheeks. Oh now of course I know all about the young ones on that MTV shaking their moneymakers, the tweaking or whatever it’s called, however, I still pine for elegance and grace, a little nuance and discretion, all seemingly in short supply nowadays.
I suppose, in the big picture, as long as nobody’s getting hurt and all consents have been granted, who am I to judge? And I don’t. Live and let live I say. I’m just glad Mr. Happy Pink Pants and Pals don’t live near me. Then again, maybe judging is the way to go. Next time they’re getting down and dirty I’m thinking we should all sit with Olympic event score cards. They’ll need to class up their act for the Newfie judge—it takes more than a flash in the pants to impress her.