I am officially on sabbatical from sex. It’s dramatic, mucky, confusing, and leads to procreation. Unfortunately, my quest is not going so well. Sex is instinctual! You can think you’re not interested in it and then boom! Here comes some hottie that smells yummy then your stupid hormones kick in and you shriek, “Take me, you beast! I don’t care that you’re a total ass clown that hasn’t called for a month and professionally sucks souls!” It blows balls. I wish I could turn it off like a switch. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex ever again or anything. But I do have to admit that I’m mostly successful in my voluntary spinsterhood because I don’t have anybody to have sex with right now. At least where it would be consensual.* But this is seriously sad! I can’t even go to Tool Fest 2004 without getting all worked up.
Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.
See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!
Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.
Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.
Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.
So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!
*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.
Bacon Dress
It's hawter than yours.
