Scissor Sex

“What the hell are they doing?” my girlfriend asked, taking a long sip of her strong drink and squinting at the TV.

“I think they’re having sex,” I said. We were watching the latest episode of The Real L Word, a completely unnecessary reality epilog to the equally unnecessary fictional series that ended a couple years ago. I refuse to watch this program without getting drunk. We tried watching it sober once, and turned it off after 10 minutes out of sheer boredom.

For some inane reason, the women involved in this bizarre exercise have agreed to allow the show producers to install night vision cameras in their sad bedrooms, allowing us to watch loads of sloppy, drunken sex. In this episode, two of the women were lying end to end with their legs wrapped around each other. This allowed them to bump hoo-haas together while scissoring their legs. It looked incredibly uncomfortable.

“It’s scissor sex!” my girlfriend exclaimed.

“Have you ever had scissor sex?” I asked.

“No, I’ve had every type of sex, except scissor sex, and from the looks of the debacle playing out in front of us, I haven’t missed anything.”

Before my girlfriend became a responsible adult, she was a lot like a character from The Real L Word. In her early 20’s, she was a professional musician who slept on people’s floors when she wasn’t shacking up with a wide array of inappropriate love interests. She is blonde and very pretty, and she merrily admits to using her looks to hook a series of generous sugar mommas, who took care of her until she was ready to leave the nest.

We often marvel at the fact that if we had met in our 20s, rather than in our 40s, we would have never had anything to do with each other. While she was sleeping through every lesbian bedroom in Boston, I was living a life of quiet, suburban desperation with my husband. I dreamt about getting a divorce and meeting a nice, staid member of the Junior League with a penchant for sweater sets and a membership to a country club.

But in my 30s, after I left my husband, I moved to the city, got a proper haircut and learned to drink cocktails. And I dated. I dated a lot. Although I was still a suburban girl at my core, and, thus, couldn’t allow myself to be too wild, I embarked on a giddy series of bad choices that kept me and my friends entertained for several years.

At the same time, my future girlfriend dropped out of the music scene and enrolled in graduate school. She got her MBA and started her own business. She met a nice woman, they had a kid, and they moved to the suburbs.

By the time we met in our early 40’s, we were finally living parallel lives. We had each left long-term relationships and were living in a small, resort community. We both had good jobs, owned homes and were much more interested in quiet happiness than nightly drama.

“I’m so happy I’m not in my 20’s,” my girlfriend proclaims at the end of each The Real L Word episode.

“I’m so glad I didn’t meet you in our 20’s,” I always say.

After last week’s episode, we decided to give scissor sex a try. It was just as uncomfortable and stupid as it looked on TV.

“I think I hurt my hip,” my girlfriend said.

“We’re too old for this,” I said, untangling myself from her.

“Thank God,” we exclaim in unison. And then reconfigured ourselves in our regular sex position, which is perfectly comfortable and reliable, and never puts either of us at risk for breaking a hip.

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