One of my best friends is an English supermodel named Layla*. Shes a stunning force of a girl, and a professional model at that, whose exotic face has graced the cover of over 10magazines in the USA and hundreds throughout Japan and Europe.
Her eyes are the color of faded denim, and she has jet-black hair that falls perfectly in line with the dramatic curve of her waist.
Layla could snag any f*ckboy she wanted. She’s dated the surfer boy with abs. She’s dated the up-and-coming narcissistic actor with the recurring role on that TV show we’re all obsessed with. She’s dated the banker wanker who spends half the year in Hong Kong. She’s dated the elusive, bad boy rock star who does drugs, but who cares because he plays the guitar?
She goes through men like I go bottles of $12 wine.
But nothing ever sticks for Layla. My friend Mel* used to bitch to me about it all the time. “F*ck. If Layla can’t snag a dude, there’s no hope for me. She’s rich. She’s beautiful. She’s funny, and that tramp is smart too!” Shed lament to me over drinks, always with her fourth Marlboro Light of the hour in hand.
Shed end every conversation regarding Layla with an I guess were all just f*cked.
What she didn’t realize is that Layla was bored with the money. She was bored with the gorgeous physiques. She was bored of the glittery falseness of fame. She just wanted someone she could talk to.
Hence why she decided to go on a blind date.
Her blind date was with a guy who, according to his Instagram account, appeared to have serious acne, an extra 10 to 15 pounds of unnecessary weight and wiry beard. His name was Blaine*.
She wasn’t exactly thrilled about the date, but she was so deeply disenchanted with all the men she had met in the past year that she figured WHY THE F*CK NOT? What’s another bad date?
The moment she set foot into the cool East London bar to meet Blaine, she knew she had made a sour mistake. The bar was way too pretentious, pseudo-hipster for her liking, and just the sight of the f*ckboys and f*ckgirls trying to be ironic in their $500 ripped designer denim sipping their locally crafted beer made her want to vomit.
And just when Layla was sure things couldn’t get any worse, she took in the sight of unfortunate-looking Blaine. He was clad in a nerdy button-down shirt, and his oversized black rim glasses looked comical on his oily wide-set face.
“You must be Layla! Layla, want a whiskey!? You seem like a whiskey girl!”
Layla couldn’t stop her lips from twisting into a tiny curve of a smile. Whiskey was her favorite drink of all time. Whiskey was her soul. She was tired of every stupid idiot boy presenting her with an overpriced bottle of champagne like it was some sort of trophy. She hated champagne.
“I will have two glasses of your finest whiskey, neat please,” Blaine said, pulling out a Cuban cigar. You like cigars? He looked Layla dead in the eye.
Most boys just ogled at her famously long legs. She wasn’t used to eye contact, and it was a wildly unexpected turn on.
Before she could even think about it, the words, “F*ck yes” were spilling out of her red lipstick-adorned mouth.
Layla and Blaine stepped out onto sidewalk, whiskey and cigar in hand. The air was gorgeously mild with a light drizzle, the kind so soft that it doesn’t make you wet, just makes your skin feel dewy and hydrated.
They sat on the edge of the sidewalk and instantly started talking. It all started with a heated and passionate debate about memoirs vs. fiction books. Layla preferred memoirs (“You might as well tell me your dreams!”), and Blaine preferred fiction (“The imagination has no limits!”). They talked politics (thank God they were both raging liberals and vehement supporters of marriage equality).
And just when the sky was turning from deep charcoal to smoldering black and the tiny array of stars began to scatter across the Great British sky, Layla found herself opening up to Blaine.
Before she knew it, she was stamping out her cigar and telling him things she never told anyone, like how her father was sick and how his pain was so palpable that it felt like she had a heavy weight holding court in heart all of the time.
Blaine listened. He told her he understood because he lost his mother when he was eight.
Laylas hand softly touched his leg. He was suddenly the sexiest man alive.
As his hand met hers, she felt a jolt of electricity surge through her entire body. Her body was begging for him, and she could feel herself pining for his like a drug.
What was happening? She had dated all of the most coveted, handsome men in London, yet she was overcome with acute sexual fantasies over 5’6 bearded dude with a spare tire.
“Take me home with you, Layla boldly declared, talking a stealth sip of her whiskey.
The next morning, over our traditional girls Sunday pub lunch, Layla showed up 15 minutes late in leather leggings and massive Chanel sunglasses. Her hair was tossed into a disheveled knot above her head. The moment we laid eyes on her, we all smirked. She reeked of a one-night stand.
“Oh whatever,” Layla said gracelessly, plopping her slight frame onto the pub bench. “I had the best sex of my entire life last night.”
“With that bloke, Blaine?” Ray* asked, her brown eyes widening. “The one who looked like Zach Galifianakis?”
“Yes. She reached into the bread basket and put a healthy dollop of butter onto the bun. She was ravenous in that post sex way.
“So what was so good?” I pressed.
“It’s the weirdest thing, she began, taking a bite of her bread. At first, I didn’t think he was cute at ALL. But we had a six-hour incredible conversation that led to the best f*ck ever.”
Blaine had started out as entirely unattractive to Layla. But when they started talking, he became undeniably cute. And as their conversation deepened, cute became handsome and handsome became sexy and sexy became handsome and cute and sexy.
It sounds so simple. Conversation is what drew Layla to him. Conversation is what turned the Zach Galifianakis look-a-like into Ian Somerhalder. Conversation is what had allowed Blaine to stimulate Laylas brain before he could stimulate her body.
Conversation is the sexiest foreplay, the perfect prelude to sex, the fiery banter that gets you heated, the stimulation of the mind that transmits to the body.
Conversation is a give and take. Just like sex itself. And the best give and takes — the best conversations — lead to the best sex.