Late into a lively party, my friend Gary was winding the stem of an extemporaneous personal travelogue as Maude, the host, joined the guests in the den.
“And Portugal was my favorite,” Gary said. “On this particular trip, in the Algarve, I took an apartment with a balcony overlooking the bluest water I’ve ever seen. It was just lovely, and it kept getting lovelier. One night at dinner, I was startled and star-struck to see a certain Hollywood heartthrob whose sexual orientation we now all know. A mutual friend introduced us. He was truly charming.
“I don’t recall whether I invited him to my apartment or he invited himself. No matter. He was there, and we enjoyed the light of a full moon over the North Atlantic.”
“This isn’t going to get sordid, is it, Gary?” Maude asked.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘sordid,’” Gary responded before continuing, “He undressed me so calmly and methodically, and he began to pleasure me, first with his tongue all over my body, and I do mean ‘all over’ . . .”
“Gary!” interjected Maude.
“Are you shocked, Maude?” Gary asked.
“I am certainly not shocked, but I do wonder why you would talk about such a private moment.”
“Oh dear, why else would one have sex with a famous person but to talk about it?”