You can feel my heart beating rhythmically through your cheek as it rests on my chest. You can feel my arm wrapped around you, my fingers lightly caressing your shoulder. My touch sends a tingle down your arm. The movie on the bedroom television is a discussing the 50 shades of grey books, and outlining how they are a mockery of the BDSM culture and generally terribly written. A women, a proprietor of some sex shop by the look of it, is describing the six hundred-odd percent increase in sales that followed the release of the trilogy. She describes an anecdote where an eighty year-old woman came in and purchased her first vibrator.
“That’s both amazing and revolting at the same time” I exclaim.
“I think it’s sort of sweet” you argue, “that little old lady is finally able to ignore the stigma and take her pleasure into her own hands in a new and exciting way.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I start, “I think it’s wonderful that she was influenced to seek out her own happiness, but the idea of an eighty year-old masturbating isn’t what I would consider arousing.”