My dear ol’ bourbon sippin’ Pappy used to exhale between those omnipotent puffs on his omniscient corn cob pipe that: Sex is alot like oxygen – you don’t miss it unless you ain’t gettin’ any.
So why does it seem like everybody is gettin’ sum – except me? I mean I’m taking in oxygen rather robustly. Not missing a pulse. I’m not even old enough to remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty.
Hmm… Look at Schwarzenegger and most of Hollywood where the brides throw the husbands away and keep the bouquet for their next ‘roll’ in a sex flick.
And how’s about Gingrich, Edwards, that South Carolina governor and his Argentinean soul-mate, as well as the other half of Washington? Those salons may be celibate when it comes to passing any good legislation, but that don’t stop them from coming out, banging on the bad belles.
Then there are those Catholic priests who have been offensively over-sacking the Sandusky boys long past the line of scrimmage.
In Philadelphia judges are getting caught with their robes up higher than their IQs. While across the Delaware River in South Jersey young teachers are not only teaching sex education – but giving their students too much homework.
A Navy Military Policeman, and cigar friend, not long back from Afghanistan, said some of the Taliban prisoners didn’t understand . When he told them that one was supposed to sleep on the top and the other on the bottom they didn’t connect the wordy dots that he was talking about bunk beds.
And even in my favorite HBO show, ‘Boardwalk Empire,’ everybody’s doing it the way sex should be done – which is why I wish I was Catholic — because sex should ALWAYS be dirty, even with sheep and dogs and the tattooed neighbor’s wife.
So? Nu? What seems to be my problem?
I think the last woman I was in was the Statue of Liberty. It’s been so long I don’t remember who gets tied up. In fact the next time will probably seem like my first time – I’ve still got the receipt.
Why is it that sex takes the least amount of time and causes the most amount of trouble? I swanny: Sex is G-d’s joke of getting even with us fools.
But I still want sum!! Hell, I needs to touch something soft – besides myself. Am I being punished or something? He who gaveth me a great 35 years has now taketh the good stuff away. Just take one of my ex-wives, please! But leave me my reason for Viagra. Which isn’t just because old wives get to be so politically corrected. Not to mention ugly!
Indeed, I am perplexed. I don’t understand. Look at my friend Victor. His father was a big mobster and Victor is just downright ‘big.’ Like a nightmare. His shadow could rearrange your furniture.
He always reminds me of one of those Eastern European boxers with those insane-asylum buzzcuts from a Romanian orphanage. Six-feet-four. Every 250 pound a knight’s maul . The paws of a village smithy. And he’s always parading South Philly’s Passyunk promenade backpacking a different vixen.
It’s like he’s punching 3 carnal time-clocks: one for dining and wining; another to cap the midnight tapdance, and then one more to cock the dawn awake.
And his only wish is that his winkie was bronzed so that “it would stay hard longer.”
What’s ‘duh’ secret I sometimes whine to ‘duh’ Vic: And he smiles quite simply — which is good, ‘cause Vic don’t like no disrespect:
“Hey, Drew. Sometimes dumb works… Besides, after 630 words my brain can’t take no more… So whaddayouse going to do?”
Hmm… Obviously, in my new sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind. Yeah, an intellectual is somebody who’s found one thing more interesting than sex.
And dat ain’t moi.
Even that big Baptist church this Jew has been genuflecting in the last five years isn’t providing me any relief in this very urgent matter. They always tell me I can’t have sex with anything until I marry it.
Hmm… Really?… G-d is toying with us, ain’t he? What a devil, even when he’s sober. Where is his mercy and grace – not to mention his 19-year-old UCLA cheerleaders?
Lordy, lordy… oh-my-lord…. Give me all you gots. Let one hurt me with her super long French-tipped fingernails!
Okay, I’ll try the SPCA.
The whites of my deacon’s eyes get ghostly big — enough to fill an entire Halloween mask — when he clamps the muscle in his crocodile jawline on this sin. It can get to be a frightening moment. That is if you ain’t completely distracted by that horny groan in your groin.
Indeed! Which only proves that just because someone is piously sincere doesn’t mean that he ain’t one sneeze away from blowing out his last two syntaxes! It sets me to guessing about what really holds his ears apart. And pondering all sorts of utter nut house insanities. Like about those horny wildebeests — and even lightning bugs with their high beams screaming on blind — running amok, hoping to slam and jam into some entanglements; finger-paint the night sky in bursts of balletic neon.
“But don’t I get credit for all the times I’ve been married and wasn’t getting any?” I yelp back pathetically to the deacon.
“Your wife needs to be saved!”
“From what? The last one took all the savings! And all I got saved up now is way too much of what I needs to be spending! I can’t even balance my jockstrap.”
I wants sum! I needs sum! Loan me your wife, deacon! All I wants is my turn in the barrel!
Hmm…. Obviously some folks have a sense of humor shorter than their sanctimonious winkies.
Which brings me to my point, if there really is one to sex, lies and great vibrations from my pants-pocketed cell phone. I don’t know what any of those silly polls might say on this matter. Heck, I haven’t trusted a poll since I read that 62% of women had affairs during their lunch hour. I’ve never met any woman in my over travailed life who would give up lunch for sex – especially if I’m buying. Either one.
And while there may be some truth in the toot that: Sex without love is a meaningless experience. Yet, as far as meaningless experiences go, it’s a pretty damn good exercise! It keeps my quadruple bypasses thumping.
Sex, indeed, is a strangely powerful emotion in motion. A wonderful reaction to ecstatic action. But it should never be confused for love.
But of course. There ain’t no life without sex. So, just keep doing it out of sight of folks with pacemakers. Try the backseat of a Chevy. Hell, most of our parents did.
And meanwhile, I needs to sleep with something I don’t have to inflate. Something so that when I open my eyes to another day I want to smile more than wince. Something that looks great, tastes great and sounds like great opera. Something that doesn’t remind this erstwhile journalist of a news bulletin: Brief, unexpected, and usually a disaster
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.