Sexing it up

Well, just yesterday I sat through hours of a corporate sex harassment seminar and all I came away with is how confusing it must be for courts to decide who does what to whom. That said, I am completely obsessed with a new term, consensual adult interaction.

That's right, if you ask someone out (not sex harassment) and they say yes, (not sex harassment) and you share a beautiful dinner, a glass or two of wine and end up in the back seat of your VW van that is considered consensual adult interaction. Ummm, say it with me a couple of times.

So, the sexy hot amazing expert on sex harassment was explaining this to me yesterday and I kept thinking, I wonder what some good old consensual adult interaction would be like, wink wink.

Now, I know, sex harassment is not always fun or healthy, but then, what is? You know what is not fun and healthy? The term consensual adult interaction. I miss the term Hooky Pooky, which is the non-adult term for sexing it up.

When did we slip off the cliff as a society and stopped being healthy sexual people?

First, where are adults supposed to meet hot sexy sexual playmates? I once went to a bar and let me tell you, it was a lot closer to the bar scene from Star Wars than the Playboy Mansion. No, the very best place to meet a prospective hotty is right there at work, or maybe McDonalds, because for some of us, meeting is just the first baby step.

Now, I am generally a shy person, unable to meet new people in foreign situations, although to be honest, meeting people in foreign countries has never been a problem. I have also been guilty of being somewhat sexually harassing.

Example? Yes of course. It all started in Alaska, where all deviant sexuality does. I was working at becoming an award winning journalist and the secretary for the news division was this beautiful Native American woman named Tess. She was something of a free spirit and on a daily basis she would look at me with passion and disbelief. I am not sure how it started, but one day I mispronounced her name, instead of saying Tess, has there been any super important phone calls for me, I accidentally said, Tits, has there been any super important phone calls for me. Her answer was the same as always, no.

But from that day on, her name shifted from the eloquent Tess to the not so discrete Tits. She never seemed to mind, in fact, her liberating smile became all the more seductive over the next few months.

But enough about Tits and me. What I am most worried about is a generation that is both humorless and sex neutered. Watch an episode of Mad Men. Those people are drinking, smoking and sexually harassing each other into a frothy mixture of all sorts of strange and wonderful things.

Would I want to go back to a place where women wore tight skirts and men had fine suits, and all anyone could think about was getting those restrictive clothes onto the floor and doing the nasty? In a heart beat.