Watching Lindsey and Jon have sex is like watching two uneasy children dare each other into experimenting with bent cigarette butts behind a 7-11. It was fidgety and they feigned some of that mammalian racket that only comes from filling a deficiency. Lust and nicotine addiction are really just mud and patchwork to our social cracks and our emotional fist shaped holes. Even with half a bottle of wine in them they couldn't drudge up the indecency it required to make this interesting- without the flaws and plaster it was just procreation, and there's nothing fucking sexy about humans breeding.
Like a gentle and pitiful tap on the back while the other child gagged and coughed at first inhalation Lindsay searched for eye contact and wrapped herself to Jon's chest after he panted, wheezed, and collapsed from his sweaty missionary stance. They'd seen it on TV and their friends talked about its importance to annoying levels. Lindsey didn't think of an orgasm of her own for an instant, maybe she never had, and Jon earnestly tried not to be distracted about stressful tax season coming. Still, they stayed quiet and hid their let downs until sleep.
"Love is easy, Jonny-boy, just think of her first."
"That easy, uh?"
"Sure, sure, you think of her before you say or do, and everything else will work out. You hit rough patches and such- maybe it's not a perfect golden rule, but it all smoothes out with consideration and patience."
"I guess you would know Pops. Listen, thanks for talking but I have to get going, say hi to Mom for me."
Jon hung up his office phone and took a moment to recognize his father's wisdom. His parents' 30th anniversary was coming and the old man had never steered him wrong before- although his dad has missed the actual question he was trying to ask. The lingering disappointment of the night before had him looking inward. Lindsay was a fit long legged blond, sharp witted for an accountant, and her voice drew him and other men in the vicinity into day dreaming. It couldn't be her, and Jon didn't have pride beyond his favorite baseball team and the impeccable US of A.
Insecurity is the first step toward any sexual mishap.
Jon turned to the masses. Dick and Howie, habitual attendees of Chili's happy hour because three years back Howie had gone home with and gotten to second base (third in Jon's moral playbook) with one of the waitresses. Nerds in most circles, friendly and foul mouthed enough for Jon to consider Chili's a seedy pub, but they weren't rude enough to push the boundaries- even if Dick did like to piss in the shower. They weren't much to look at but a steady income can get even the silliest of men laid every once in a while. So after the first round of Heinekens and a stalemate in a trivial argument over fantasy draft picks, Jon reached out to his buddies for some advice.
"Well Jon, it's all about the lube, man. Spit is for high school, tequila was for college, now it is actual lube. Get some of that warming cinnamon shit, goddamn stuff will heat it up for you. Lindsey'll be cool with it, trust me. They all love it."
"Shut the fuck up Dick, just cuz you beat off with that shit doesn't mean she will- not unless you're using it for the back door."
"The back door?"
Jon turned his head and looked to the rear of Chili's as he said this. Howie and Dick broke out laughing and watched Jon melt red in slow realization that their conversation had so quickly reached anal sex.
The problem with fucking with the well-adjusted is that they are well-situated people. The hits don't hurt as bad and the falls are never very far. But every safety net has weight limits; depression and revulsion are never more than a few horrific acts away. It's small steps; insecurity, loss, and anger. Perhaps not sequentially first, but a certain step toward fucking up a relationship is accepting bad advice. And since Jon is a sharp financier of types, 90 percent of bad advice that he might listen to is sexual. Who did he pay attention to?