Ok, I have a confession: I once dated a guy who lived in his parents’ basement. Wait! Wait! Before you start sneering and snorting and passing judgment on me, let me explain how he wasn’t a total loser (not totally): he was a poor graduate student, and the basement was really nice, much nicer than the crappy apartment I was working two jobs that summer to afford, and I don’t think his Mom still did his laundry, but, I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Did I mention he was good looking? Oh yeah, he was good looking, in that way Italian men are good looking, which means they think they are way more attractive than they actually are along with being convinced they could do better than you, if they tried.
So you see why this didn’t last.
But I did date him long enough to find myself in that basement one night after we had gone to a movie and then decided to go back to his house to
drink cheap beer and make out hang out. In the middle of this, um, hanging out, he put his hand over my mouth and whispered fiercely, “Be quiet! You’re going to wake my parents!”
At that moment, I suddenly realized why you should never date a man who lives in his parents’ basement.
Since then, I’ve often thought back on this episode and been a little ashamed and embarrassed (obviously not too much, since I’m blogging about it now) because there I was, with my blouse unbuttoned and my bra twisted somewhere up around my neck, trying to be all sexy and encouraging by responding vocally (and really, I wasn’t too loud. Really, I wasn’t. Really.) to him, when he felt the need to chastise me.
But today I read this article in the LA Times: Why Prolonged Sex is Dangerous: It Can Get You Killed and it’s got me changing my long-
held opinion of this jerk that I let tongue kiss me and touch my boobs. The article explains that (maybe) Mother Nature has designed sex to be quick, furtive, and quiet so as not to attract the attention of that sabre toothed tiger over there licking its chops in our general direction when we are, um, distracted, and probably not thinking clearly enough to grab the nearest rock and hurl it. To test the theory, researchers invited a bunch of bats to a fly swinger party.
. . .when the flies copulate, the researchers reported Monday in the journal Current Biology, they make a distinctive noise that the bats can home in on. Of the 1,105 acts of copulation observed by the researchers, bats attacked 59 times, consuming both flies almost all the time — thereby obtaining a two-for-one dinner.
To show that it was not simply the increased size of the copulating couple that attracted the bats, the researchers pinned flies in a copulating position to the ceiling. The bats ignored them. But when the team played the sounds of copulation through speakers, the bats attacked the speakers.
Poor stupid, horny flies. Of course, the bats aren’t too smart either. I wonder how speakers taste. Probably not much worse than flies, I suppose. (And what kind of noises do you think flies make when they screw? And shouldn’t “Sounds of Copulation” be a playlist available on iTunes?)
So when my basement-dwelling Italian boyfriend put his hand over my mouth and told me (more or less) to STFU, maybe he was just responding to some signal coming from deep inside his reptilian brain, reaching back through millions of years of evolution, to protect me and keep me safe. Oh, and what about that other guy I dated for a bit, who always spunked TWO minutes after getting it in? Yeah, him, too. He had to be quick, to avoid the predators!
Hmmmmm. Remind me not to sleep with any of the researchers who conducted this study.
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