How much sex is too much sex, was the question going around. "Really, he can go three times a day. Sometimes I wish he would stop, or maybe he is a sex addict. He doesn't know how it feels to have a dry vagina," she says as she hands over a slice of cheesecake. The abruption of laughter was enough for me to begin my usual inhale/exhale weird laugh. You know...the one that sounds like Revenge of the Nerds.
Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was drinking. Maybe it was worrying so much about work and life, that it happened. Blackout.
I couldn't tell you exactly what was going on other than I was watching my mom talk to me when I was a kid. She kept insisting I would be fine. It was a pure thought, a happy thought. I sat there watching it happen, with fuzzy edges all around. You know, the kind you place on a picture to make it a dreamscape. Except this wasn't a dream. For what seemed like a mere second, it was all playing out. It was serene. It was real. It was pure as white light.
And then the push through. It got heavy, I had to fight the weight of a brick wall, a gasp of air. There was no talk of dry vagina's, sex, or blowjobs. People were around me, my family and friends.
"Elevate his legs."
"Bring him some water."
"Don't worry you are fine, breathe in, breathe out."
"Cancel the EMT."
My friends recounted back to me what had happened, but my hearing was still a little fuzzy. I gathered what I could...but all I could remember is what my mom was telling me, her youthful face, her smile.
It left me haunted.
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