Licked

The Media Girl has an odd way of starting a conversation.

"Do you watch porn?" she asked.
This wasn't addressed to me, but to Mr Smith, so I naturally became rather interested in where she planned on going with this tête-à-tête, and whether to make a witty contribution of a stiletto heel through her foot.

Fortunately for her foot, it wasn't an invitation, but the start of an anecdote about certain predilections she shared with her flat-mates.
"I like being licked from behind," she concluded, cheerfully.
"How lovely," I murmured, "a truly delightful story. Quite heart-warming. Perhaps you ought to put it on your profile page."

She rolled her eyes. Instead of her foot, I imagined a Miu Miu spike through her bloated head, and her whizzing around the room like a deflating balloon. It was a satisfying thought.

I mean, really. What is wrong with the old standards of conversation-starters, like the weather? Dull, perhaps, but at least talking about the rain never made one lose one's appetite.

Sharing what one likes having done to one's nether-regions, should wait until you have known someone a little longer. Like an hour, at least.