You want me to do what?!!! Damn!!! My own belief is that there is hardly anyone whose sexual life, if it were broadcast, would not fill the world at large with surprise and horror. But I am just an old fashioned kind of guy. Skip the unusual and just give me a shot of the ordinary… please!

Years back this shapely law student in her late 20s, who had retired from competitive gymnastics, had a ‘demand’ list of oral and physical sexual requirements that men must perform. Otherwise she simply wouldn’t have sex with you.

And I simply thought: Well, most of her requisites are within my physical dexterity. “I can do that… and that… and that,” I professed. “And especially that!”

And so we did…


But these days I seem to be way-way out of my tribal mating league. It doesn’t matter that I am older. I just don’t do dat… Or dat… And especially dat!

And so I don’t! And I don’t wanna! What duh hell, what the heck is going on out there on the lone prairie… not to mention the noisy Serengeti. Erica Jong may have revealed that women have sexual fantasies… too! A ‘zipless f-k’ is one thing. But these women of late got me fleeing in the night to my rental Zip car.

I mean recently there was this woman, who also happens to be a lawyer, from some Balkan country. It must be where the Serbs and the Croats get a tad hazy about distinguishing between passionate sex and downright war. She demanded that I slam her onto the ground and choke her so, she said, “I know it’s for my own damn good!”

Hmm…I would have liked to have done that to a couple of my exes – without the sex. And without spending more time in prison. But not to some woman I just met for a drink. So I quickly excused myself with the penurious pretext I have often used when escaping a bedroom at a ‘civilized’ early morning hour.

“Gotta get the Zip car back. Don’t wanna pay all those penalty fees.”

It’s not just a Jewish thing. A couple of guys I know have used very similar escape hatches. One overly erudite friend admitted he even climbed out the barely-scalable bathroom window of a restaurant. In the pouring rain. And grabbed any bus heading out of Chinatown.


Then there was this lovely lass from some Caribbean paradise. Half way into our ecstasy she got to screaming. She insisted I smack her: “Hard… Harder!… Harder!!…”

And I’m not talking about across the facial cheeks or jowls. Or even her fine-fine super behind. She wanted me to smack her fiercely in the same pleasurable and painful arena that men go to great lengths to protect. We don’t call them family jewels for nuttin’.

Gotta go, darling. Gotta get the Zip car back.

And then there was the lovely who kept flopping over on her belly. Or getting up on her knees.

Okay, I whooped, doggie-style. Ruff-ruff!

But no! She insisted it had to be all sorts of anal calisthenics only. A tad too self-assuredly she barked: “When I get married I am still going to be a virgin.”

Zip car!

Oh, lordy-lordy-lordy! Take me back to that place in time when the lovin’ was simple, free and easy.


I should be wondering: Is it something about me?


After all, more women than just my mother (when she wasn’t so delusional) have described me as a ‘real catch.’ First and foremost – and highly regarded these days – is that I am definitely a heterosexual. My stomach is flat. My hair is still thick. They declare that I am smart, sexy and sociable. And sanguine most of duh time – even when the Dow Jones is crashing. That I smile with tolerance. Smolder with laughter. I spend money… MY money…

Hell, I oughtto put myself on Or even Ashley Madison. I don’t care if you’ve got a husband. I ain’t the jealous type. I just want my turn in the barrel. But I don’t need no extra-special cooking.

Soooo… why is it that I’ve been attracting women whom, shall we say, are bloody damn nuts!? Even crazier than a horny man… if you can believe that.

And it apparently isn’t only happening to moi. A friend or mine, with whom I was sharing my plaintive tale of woe, told me that the latest woman he was cheating on his wife with, begged him… begged him!… to shove his almost empty beer bottle up her ‘love’ canal.

And make it hurt!

Make it hurt????

Hmm… Doesn’t that sort of remind you of the old joke: She demanded that I give her 12 inches… and make it hurt!

So I screwed her three times… and shot her dog.

Apparently that ain’t no joke no mo’. I mean this is what they must mean by ‘painful pleasure.’ Or, is it: No pain — that’s insane!

As one woman informed me: “You gotta dream. It’s what makes people love life, gives you pleasure – even when it’s a little painful.”

Oh, sure: It was a pleasure choking you… until the police arrived.

Such joy!

I feel… hmm… I feel… I guess I feel like a virgin on her honeymoon. Like the newlywed of Hall of Fame Cincinnati Reds Catcher, Johnny Bench. His wife Vickie, a former model, complained in divorce court a while back that on their honey moon: ‘He wanted a whore in the bedroom! He has no respect.’


And most of us guys were sitting about nodding our heads: ‘Yeah… yeah… pretty much.’

But like I said, maybe it’s just me.

Then again, there’s been lots ballyhoo of late about that new pink “Viagra pill’ for women who no longer have the desire for sex. Unlike the famous ‘blue pill’ Viagra, which works by increasing blood flow to the male sex organs, the pink Addyi works directly on the chemicals of the brain. It increases a woman’s dopamine and norepinephrine.

In other words it directly targets libido. Makes some women drive right over you for sex.

I realize that some women need it. However, I seem to be wearing a neon sign flashing across my forehead, attracting women who not only have the utmost desire, but the desire for things that leave me gasping. And admittedly, I’ve been around the block from here to Bangkok a few times. I can be a whore in the bedroom. Just get me to swallow one of Bill Cosby’s pills with a glass of wine.

On the one hand it’s nice that women are seizing the sexual opportunity to be the aggressor rather than merely the passive recipient. The one being seduced. I know I would have liked that in my earlier, more vigorous years… when I thought you had to wear knee pads and beg.

But now I am just glad to get it up — and in — before I deflate like one of Tom Brady’s footballs.

One time, as my mind was sceaming: You want me to do what?! She said: ‘If you are not willing to risk the unusual you’ll have to settle for the ordinary.’

Believe me, I’ll settle. Call me old-fashioned but I believe morality is just a matter of opinion. I am a firm believer in that if you can’t get it the old-fashioned way you don’t need it.

The thing I learned about rough sex – like tough love – a long time ago is that you’ve got to know when to hold back. All I can plead now is: ‘Don’t hurt me honey.’ I may not be too old for Medicare, but that doesn’t mean I am too old for women to care – about me. I am more than just an object of sex!

Sniff! Sniff!

Actually, I don’t mind waking up black and bruised. I just don’t want to be waking up in my Zip car wondering what duh hell, what duh hell, what duh heck… gotta hang myself up by the neck.

It’s crazy out there!

But then again, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Even if it’s ‘on-demand!’

And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…

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