On involuntary thoughts.
November 24, 2010 § 1 Comment
There are only a few things about me that I’m actually proud of. One of them is my imagination.
My suspension of disbelief works wonders, thank you very much. Strangely though, I don’t recall ever having an imaginary friend and my mother says that with the amount of books I read, no need for talking with myself (I can always talk with the book).
Anyway, a vivid imagination is not a blessing all the time. For instance, you know how people say that to find out if you are in love with someone, you have to imagine them taking a shit? Well, every time someone says that, I picture every single guy I ever kissed sitting in the toilet. I can’t control, it just happens.
Thankfully, they are not that many and I’m not disgusted easily.
I must say, it doesn’t affect me that much. It could be because my group of friends back home consists mostly of guys or that my longest relationship was with a guy who had little regard for social rules such as holding a fart in front of me (intimacy, right?). Awkward story: when I was very very young, like 4 years old, I was in a supermarket with my Mom and I REALLY REALLY had to go to the bathroom. Safe to say, it doesn’t end pretty.
Another thing I do is that every time I meet a couple, I imagine them having sex. I can’t control it and I know it’s very much a pervert thing to do, but say that to my brain. I don’t mind if it’s a good looking couple, but sadly that’s hardly ever the case.
I just imagine it. It’s funny to see how it works, though. I don’t always imagine them having sex in bed. Sometimes the image that pops in my mind is a rather odd one. Like in a farm or in the kitchen, dressed up or very pure and safe.
I imagine it without any previous knowledge or conceptions of their sexual behaviours or attitudes. I always want to ask about it, but I think it could end up very badly and people usually take it in a weird way.
“So, Julia, these are my cousins, Ana and Ben.”
“Hi Ana. Hi Ben. So, do you guys like outdoors, hum? Doesn’t the sand bother you at all? I always feel like it would get into the worst places.”
I would probably be slapped by someone in there. Hopefully some people would take it jokingly but what if Ben has just slept with Ana’s flatmate and they are going through a crisis? Tough shit. What I’m trying to say is that maybe it’s better to not say anything.
For instance, the other day I was working in the pub. There was this old man, in his 60s or more. Glasses, wool waistcoat, barely any hair left. He was eating alone, because his son was stuck at work or something. (Excuses, excuses. No worries, we all eat alone at some point. No judgements.)
He was rather lovely and very excited about our selection of beers. Whenever I went to his table, he would try to start a conversation, but really there’s only so much I can talk about ales.
The guy decided to order a roast gammon. I ordered it, it came up, he ate it all. When I went to clear his plate, he tried to strike up another conversation. People love to start conversations when you are holding plates and glasses.
I hoping it wouldn’t be about ales again.
“This was lovely”, he said, pointing at the now empty plate.
Relief. Food. I can cover at least 15 seconds of conversation about it.
“Yes, yes. Quite lovely, isn’t it? I had it for lunch.” I replied, still holding on to the plate. It’s not heavy, don’t worry.
“YES! YES! Absolutely.” he said, “don’t tell this to my wife…”
I immediately thought he was going to say something along the lines of “I can’t eat gammon because of my diet”. I smiled and nodded while I waited for him to finish the sentence. He lowered his voice.
“…but it’s almost as good as…” OH SHIT. Is he going to say sex? Please don’t say sex. I don’t want to imagine you in your wool waistcoat having sex.
“almost as good as…” Hold the smile, Julia. Hold the smile. Please don’t say sex. Please don’t say sex. He doesn’t finish the bloody sentence. It’s too late, I’m picturing already. I don’t know his wife, but she looks about 40 in my head and they are having sex in the kitchen.
He smiles. I’m shaking with the weight of the plate. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He MUST be playing with my head!
“Don’t tell her, but it’s almost as good as…” WHO SAYS THAT THREE TIMES? “…at home.” He finished it! At home! Of course it was at home.
Oh, now I’m imagining them having sex all over the house! No. No. No. Say something. He’s waiting for a reply. I smile. Panic. I look both sides, is there anyone calling me? No. Help is not coming. I smile even wider. My face looks like of the Cheshire cat.
I realise he’s talking about his wife’s cooking. Ah, yes. Why would it be sex? I nod wisely.
“Ah, don’t worry! I won’t tell her.” I say, as if we were accomplices. I would wink, but I’m scared he might think I’m flirting with him.
I turn my body towards the bar. He smiles. I leave, but not before I imagine him and his wife engaged in a wild sex in the kitchen. She’s wearing an apron and preparing roast gammon.