One thing about women I’ve really come to hate is when they say they’re good in the bedroom. Because they never are, are they? Every woman I’ve been with has playfully told me this but, once I get them in the sack, the only thing they’re a master of is some long lost chapter of the Kama Sutra: The Dead Turtle, The Fallen Log, The Elderly Bassett Hound.
I was thinking back the other day and I realized that I’ve been bored to tears by every single sexual experience. It’s gotten to the point where, on a date, a woman says she’s really good in the bedroom in her best Marilyn Monroe, and I go, “Oh? Hmmm.” like she just told me she likes sunny days.
I’m sure I’m probably missing the ball, here. I mean, statistically speaking, one of these women must actually be good in bed, but I’ll never find out because I’ve been turned off by her hideously dull sisters-in-arms. And I’m not sorry, either. It’s not like I sit around thinking, damn, I wonder if I’m missing that one in a million. Because the other thing I’ve come to hate is the pursuit itself. I just don’t care anymore. Over and over again, the game goes on. The countless hours spent chasing each other, the nights and days spent dating, the blah-blah-blah of seemingly endless and often dismal personal history, the exploration of likes and dislikes, the infinite hours sharing interests, only to get dumped. Or have her be so crazy that I have to dump her. Months or years of experiences lost. Tainted by a love gone sour.
People say, oh, that’s part of the journey, tra-la-la. No it fucking isn’t. Life is short and terrible. I don’t have the time to deal with retards, screwballs, fuckheads, cheats, and liars. And I really hate that, anyway. The people who say it’s all part of it, and encourage me to get back in the water. Then, when it all goes south, they say, yeah, she was a bitch. She was crazy. She’s horrible. How transparent is that? Okay…so you’re siding with me because I’m a friend but, after a dozen times, I’m starting to wonder – is she really a horrible crazy bitch, or are you just trying to avoid admitting that I’m the horrible crazy bitch? Because a normal person would try to warn me before the fact, thank you.
The sex thing really bothers me. I have this suspicion that it’s supposed to be really fun. Maybe that’s just me being programmed by pop culture. Maybe it’s not supposed to be fun. Or maybe The Elderly Bassett Hound is fun for other people. I’ve yet to meet a woman who’s comfortable with her body and adventurous in bed. Sex sort of loses its luster if she’s clumsy or afraid or weird or twitchy. I’ve been with women who can’t find their vagina. Why don’t you put it in, baby? Oh, okay. Stab, stab, stab… Hang on, sister! Did you just get this installed yesterday?
The washing up thing drives me crazy, too. The girls who won’t have sex until they’ve showered. Talk about killing the mood. Oooh…you’re all hard and ready, eh? I’ll be back in 45 minutes.
Okay. I’ll just watch an episode of The Mentalist, I guess. Oh, and, jack off! Jesus.
I guess I prefer that over washing up immediately after. Maybe I’m a bit fey, but I like to cuddle afterwards. Yet half the women I’ve been with are up and out of bed like it’s on fire and they hit the showers. So I sit there wondering: Am I dirty? When she gets out of the shower, is she going to toss $20 on the nightstand and leave?
Boy, wouldn’t that be nice? Twenty bucks richer and I get to not share my bed with, you know, another fucking animal like me.
I never understood the showering thing. Before or after. It’s not like this is surgery – we’re doing the most natural thing we can do besides clubbing each other with shoulderbones. It’s dirty. It’s messy. Yes. It’s sex! You don’t have to be clean to have it, and you don’t have to run to the shower afterwards like I just sprayed you with blood from a dead raccoon.
The girls who really get me are the ones with serious limitations. Like they won’t suck cock, or are disgusted if I eat pussy. Or they have to be in a certain position and they’re weirdly fussy about it during the act. One girl didn’t want me to cum anywhere near her. I had to leave the room. Seriously. So why have sex with me, then?
My favorite ones are the girls who will only have sex in the bedroom. It’s the bedroom or nothing. Period. What’s with that? I know it’s not a Catholic thing. That’s not an excuse. People actually claim it is, but I know Catholics, and I know Catholic girls, and I’ve had sex in a confessional.
Then there are the girls who won’t have sex during the day. That’s always fun.
Maybe it’s guilt that drives all of that. My impression, based off of my experiences which, clearly, are flawed, is that women feel guilty about sex. Like maybe they feel better than men and are forced very much against their wills to stoop to our level and let us use them in this horrific way. Kind of like when you watch animals fucking and there’s this sad, soulless, utilitarian aspect to it all. And I guess we’re animals, right? So sex must be sad, soulless, and utilitarian. That’s the only conclusion I can reach after fucking girls for 20 years. I’ve tried all types, too. Blacks, whites, Asians, natives, various hair colors, shapes, and sizes. I figured, hey, maybe it’s just a matter of getting the right combination.
And how proud so many of them have been. They say they’re gonna get my spine out of joint and lead me by my cock to the bedroom, all lip-licking and dirty talking. Then – flop – the secret of The Dead Turtle.
My friend says he loves blow-jobs to the point of obsession. I’ve come to use blow-jobs more as a litmus test. Before we hit the bed and I experience The Dead Turtle or The Elderly Bassett Hound, there’s The River Rat. The blow-job from hell. Which, so far, has been every single blow-job. Either the girl is timid and obviously uncomfortable (The Glass of Water), or she does The River Rat and gnaws away at my cock. Sweetheart, sorry, but that’s not a pepperoni roll.
So…yeah. Sex sucks. I give up. I’m really tired. I’m tired of everything. You know, I seriously thought I’d be dead at 25 so everything since has been kind of like, oh, god. It just keeps going, doesn’t it?