The first time I had sex with this particular ex- let's call him "Jeff" - it seemed like a happy accident that there was a mirror hanging on the wall, directly across from the living room entrance way. Why, you could watch yourself doing it from over the arm of the couch. Bonus!
And then, when we made it to the bedroom, two of the walls were covered in mirrors.
Hmm.
Jeff was a liar. He lied about his age and his whereabouts. I'm pretty sure he lied about his mother's death once, in an attempt to curry pity. And he also lied about his age (he was mid-forties, not mid-thirties.) But Jeff was hot with a cool apartment and a sexy accent, so I overlooked the lying because... y'know, I'm an awful person. (It actually wasn't as dramatic a relationship as it sounds: I mostly didn't care that he was terrible, so we got along fine.)
Oh. And he could only have sex when in front of a reflective surface.
It got to be funny after a while: him, pumping away and giving himself The Look(TM) in the mirror. Talk about a sexual
performance.
In retrospect: maybe not the smartest thing I ever did. That American Psycho scene hit a little too close to home, once I finally got around to watching it. I might have ended up a "cranberry" stain at his dry cleaner's.
Never a good sign when you're just a prop.
