You may wonder why Gary expresses horror at the bawdy vulgar tomato I have become. I once was pure and innocent. In fact, in my letter to him detailing why I didn't want to pony up my (technical) virginity, I gave as reason #7 that it was a core part of my personality. I was the Virgin Ellen. Lace and flowers and lots of talking about sex, but not actually participating in it. Because penetration is bad. Bad, wicked girls do that. I still whisper that to myself sometimes if I need to get aroused.
So, while I dragged my heels for eighteen months (until I was engaged and finally experienced the most romantic twenty seconds of my life) I just talked about sex with Gary, and one of my earliest questions was "What are your sexual fantasies?"
"I don't have any sexual fantasies," he said.
"Oh, sure you do. Come on. You can tell me. You have to trust me if we're going to be in a" [non-technical] "sexual relationship."
"You are my sexual fantasy."
"I don't believe you. What is it? S&M? Triplets? Why won't you tell me? Do you think I'll judge you?"
Gary, I am sure, thought on how very non-judgmental Southern Baptists can be, and sighed, "Okay. I'll tell you."
"Yay!" I cuddled up close to him and cooed in his ear, "Sexy! Tell me. What is it?"
He sighed and looked embarassed.
I pouted, "You promised you'd tell. I'll tell you mine."
He snuggled in close and began whispering in my ear. "Well, sometimes I pretend I'm a shepard and I have a flock of sheep."
"Oooo! And there's a shepardess!"
"Noooo," he murmered, "It's just me, and the sheep, and then the sheep gather around me...and nuzzle me..."
"Uh..huh," I said earnestly, gazing into his eyes, wondering when we'd get past the exposition.
"And then I have sex with them."
"With the sheep. They're all soft, and they nuzzle up against me, you know, and they bleat, and they're all soft, and they butt their heads up against me and I just can't help myself."
Wow, I thought, wow. Where did that come from? Sheep. That's pretty ... sheep? I don't know. Guys think about sheep? Okay, well, that isn't so bad. It's not like he hurts the sheep. And at least he has some type of relationship with them; he takes care of them.
I really don't remember how we got off the subject. I spent a good week in my head coming to terms with this whole man-sheep love thing. The next weekend, I said,
"So, sheep. That's kind of sweet."
"What? What about sheep?"
I playfully tickled his arm. "You know, how you like sheep." I was not seeing the relief and intimacy I expected. "Sheep are sweet." Oddly, Gary began to pull away.
"Ellen," he whispered, "I was joking. I ... I thought that was clear. I mean, sheep ... that's ... that's ... perverted. Ew." He looked at me like I was a freak.
"Well, I don't know! How am I supposed to know! You could be into all kinds of stuff like that." Oh, last time we're talking about fantasies, buddy. "You said the sheep wanted it." Jerk.
He started to laugh. I laughed a little, just to relieve my embarassment. Then for the rest of the night, as we sweated our way through our eight-hour-long make-out session, he would intermittently bleat.
I thought of this tonight. Because when he was playing with my hair he said, "Your hair is so soft. Just like ... a sheep." Bastard.