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2002-09-10 - 12:56 p.m.

Lunch isn't what it used to be.

Over the past several years, lunches have gone from being a brief and welcome intermission in the workday to company sanctioned and directed conferences. Mergers are completed, big deals finalized, new or ongoing enterprises are dissected and little deals are formed when we do lunch. Gone are the simple days when we could get away to grab a bite to eat. Today we join in power lunches, box lunch conversations--a variation of the brown bag luncheons--networking lunches and lunch and learn sessions.

I've had my share of overbearing work-and-eat meals, lunches serving as a catalyst for brainstorming, troubleshooting and analyzing new collaborative projects. Tasteless chicken sandwiches have fossilized and fruit salad has turned brown while mission statements and goals have been written, weighty decisions have been made and facts and figures have been debated. Recently, however, I've found myself smack in the middle of a different lunch setting.

The pornographic luncheon.

Although some mergers have been discussed, these smutty lunches certainly haven't involved many big deals, much use of brainpower or any discussion of figures-full or otherwise.

I'm not exactly known as a prude, but ranking and debating the value of the sex act and the participant's reactions to sex over tacos and burgers sent me into a choking fit last Friday. I was savoring my cold roast beef sandwich, oblivious to the four or five others at the table, when I heard: "You think doin it is work?"

Doin it? Like the doin it from the late sixties? That doin it? Surely not!

"Well, maybe if you only get it once a month, now that might be work. But once or twice a week isn't work."

"What is it then?"

"A pleasure!" An outburst of childish giggles followed.

Yep, that doin it!

A table of women diners--all of who spout good Southern Baptist upbringing but more often than not make redneck, judgmental remarks--was making a locker room seem tame.

Milk-sodden bits of bread and beef spewed from my mouth and splattered on the table. When I could breathe again I muttered Jesus H. Christ, stuffed the remains of my sandwich and chips into my lunch bag and exited the room. But not without some squabbling: "Hey, whatsa matter? Haven't you got a sex life you can talk about?"

"I don't think I have room on my plate today for roast beef and sex." And I walked off.

A weekend away didn't exorcise sex from the dining table. Yesterday the same group was assembled. The inane chitchat began with a rundown of local hair salons, the escalating prices of hair care and brow waxing.

And it was no big leap to bikini waxing!

"Can you imagine doing that?

"Can you imagine someone else doing it for you?"

"Salons in California and Florida specialize in waxes for thong wearers."

"Yeeeeeeeooouch!"

"Who would want that done?"

"Can you imagine someone else doing that job on you?"

"Having it done? Think about how you'd have to position yourself."

"Yeah, just like a damn PAP! Spread-eagle, stirrups and all."

And on and on and on.

My eggplant parmesan quickly lost its appeal. I cleaned up my place at the table and left the room, going out through the main office. Just beyond the faculty lunchroom is the director's office (she was still in the dining lounge eating and debating the wisdom of a thong wax). Movement in the room caught my eye. There, eyes big as saucers, was a young man finishing up the last few minutes of his hour's detention. And very obviously anxious to catch up to his friends and share the tidbits from his lunch and learn session at school!

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