about as fun as a baseball bat to the crotch
"If you're celebrity and you were going to make a sex tape, wouldn't you already have a place in mind to hide it when you were done before you yelled 'Action'?" my Tool Man asked, pausing briefly between gulps of his Diet Coke to query me.
Now, lest you think Tool Man and I routinely discuss this type of fine art over Subway six-inch grilled chicken sandwiches (I assure you, it's the taste of the sandwich, and not the size...), allow me to clarify that the afternoon's agenda was established by the bantering of two radio dj's, who were running down a laundry list of celebrities who've had their fame (or infamy) stroked by the so-called accidental release of their videotaped exploits.
As we enjoyed our sandwiches devoid of paparazzi snooping us out in our little Midwestern hovel, I reached across the table, grabbed Tool Man's mustardy hand, and told him how thankful I was that my attempt at stardom was snuffed out in the fourth grade when I auditioned for a regional talent program, regardless of how strong my interpretation of ABBA's Fernando was (AND IT WAS!!!), because I simply am not cut out to live the life of a celebrity. Especially one whose grainy, night goggled exploits show up routinely on television and the Internet. Tool Man nodded, assured me once again that my skill with ABBA's catalogue of hits is, indeed, unprecedented, then took another bite from his sandwich before continuing.
"Let's just say if we were to make a sex tape..." Cecille B. DeTool Man threw out to the universe.
"Hold up a minute. Is this about you wanting me to dress up - nay, UNDRESS - like Sheena Easton and hum Sugar Walls while you're doing God knows what where I can't really see you, then making me watch it?" I asked, seeing his eyes light up.
(HOLD UP AGAIN! I just watched that video clip for Sugar Walls and I LOOKED JUST LIKE SHEENA EASTON when I met Tool Man! I'm beginning to think this topic of Sunday conversation was not just some sporadic follow up to "So, your sandwich? Sure is good, huh?").
"I just don't get the desire to see myself after I've done it," I continued, watching his eyes slightly dim. Another bite of his sandwich taken.
"You want to, don't you?!" I asked. Eye? Radiating. Shoulders? Broad and back.
"What if the sex was so good, we both experienced a simultaneous heart attack and died while in the midst of filming, and our loved ones found it, ala "The Blair Witch Project," and watched in horror as we poked, then perished?" I demanded.
"My parents don't know how to operate a VCR..." he responded, formulating a script in his brain while responding.
Now, I do a lot of things to and for Tool Man. A LOT. But I felt the need to right then yell "Cut!" on his plan to rush us home and stage an epic production because the idea of watching parts of myself pop into frame (and probably Tool Man shooting sideways glances and 'thumbs up' signs at the camera - because I believe this is standard protocol for all men who produce and direct a homemade sex tape) would be just too much to bear.
And absolutely too much to bare.
And also? That Sugar Walls song always has annoyed me.