I Take Requests

I split with my last girlfriend in February. Here it is, nearly August. That’s pushing half a year of not being with a woman. That’s when being glad you’re rid of her because she drove you crazy get replaced with a little loneliness. I’ll admit it. I’m getting kind of lonely.

The first thing you miss is obviously the sex. After all, that’s what differentiates a relationship from a friendship. I have no idea how the female libido works. The only absolute I’ve ever figured out is that handing a woman a little blue box from Tiffany’s makes her panties fall off. With men, it’s easy. We have a factory between our legs that is pumping out the horny juice 24 hours a day. We can’t stop it or suppress it. So sex is always either thought 1 or 1a.

After this much time, it’s not just the act that’s missed. It’s the other stuff. Women’s bodies are so different. That’s what makes them so wonderful. Obviously the warm, wet parts are missed, but so are the little things like the cool, smoothness of thigh skin. You can’t replicate a face full of boobs when you’re alone. And they just smell so good.

Then there are the requests. The glorious requests, breathy, during the act, direct to the ear, that start with “I want you to,” and usually end with an erotically supercharged call to action involving a prepositional qualifier using either “on my” or “in my.” Oh, yeah, I take requests.

But it’s been long enough that there are other things I miss about having someone around. I have my kid half the time. The other half I shuffle around the house, muttering to myself and hearing things. I’d like to have someone there. To keep me from going back off the deep end.

Also, I’ve got SFUF. That’s a technical medical diagnosis: Seriously Fucked Up Foot. The doctor started my last visit with, “The MRI report was two pages long. There’s a lot going on in there.” I need surgery on both sides of my right foot with four different procedures taking place. I’m going to be completely useless for a week, and fairly useless for six weeks. My parents are already assuming they are going to come up to care for me. I love my parents dearly. But I would rather eat glass. They drive me crazy. It would be nice to have a woman who would stay with me and care for me, and bring me my meds and coo in my ear. A woman who would dab my forehead with a warm cloth and bring me dinner on a tray. A woman who would offer to take my kid to the zoo while I was laid up. A woman who would clean and do my laundry while I was incapacitated. Oh, and don’t forget the sympathy blowjobs.

Bite me

I dated a biter last year. I had never heard of it. I didn’t know what it was. Maybe she is the only one on earth. A friend set me up with a woman. By “set me up” I mean he gave me her email address and said, “You should contact her. I told her about you. I think you’d like her.”

So I sent her an email on Sunday morning, and by nine that Sunday night she was swimming naked in my pool. Yes, I’m just that charming. Or she was just that horny. Take your pick. Anyway, she’s pretty and smart and has a good, professional job and twin girls my daughter’s age. What’s not to like?

Well, she’s a biter. Not me, just something. Anything. Pretty much the whole time during intercourse, she has to be biting on something. The pillow. The blanket. Her knuckle. Or, my favorite, her knee. It was a bit distracting. I thought briefly that it was because I have a massive tool. But her ex-husband is a black guy who used to play in the NFL. His dick is bigger than mine by proclamation of the parliament.

Now, I’m not one to mock peculiar sexual proclivities of others. I’m just a reporter in this case. We didn’t last too long. It wasn’t because of the biting. But it didn’t help.

Insert vagina dentata joke here.

I hate to be the crotchedy old man

who bitches about “kids these days,” but I’m going to.

I just got back from a weekend in Vegas. I stayed at the Hard Rock. That place is Sin City. The strip is not Sin City, just that place. It is off by itself, and so there are no fat tourists from Wisconsin wearing Git-R-Done t-shirst and fanny packs. Everybody there is beautiful. Everybody. I held the elevator doors to let a group of nine bikini models ride down with me on the way to the photo shoot at the pool. That’s how beautiful that place is.

Now, concerning the women, there are a lot of fake tits there (you got your real ones, and you got your round ones.) I’m personally not a fan, but that’s OK. They’re fine. Whatever. But dudes, listen. I was you. It was a few years ago, but I was you. I was buff and played drums in a rock band and fucked women just as hot as the women you’re chatting up at the tiki bar. You may find this hard to believe, but my mullet got me laid just as much then as your chia-pet fauxhawk is now. But this shit doesn’t last forever. You can change your hair. You can get rid of the oversized shades with the big gold emblems on the side. But that enormous “me too” tribal shit all over your chest and shoulders and back? That shit is forever. Good luck with that decision as you go through life, sonny.

NOW GET OUT OF MY YARD!