What's the point?
So a couple of weeks ago, a bunch of us guys from the office were driving somewhere for a meeting someplace.
How's that for painting a picture?
Let's just say if you were murdered, you probably wouldn't want me as the lone witness at the scene of the crime.
Um, I dunno officer. I know the guy who killed him was like, um, I dunno, tall. I guess. You want to know what kind of knife he used? He used a knife?
So anyway, a couple of weeks ago a bunch of us guys from the office were driving somewhere for a meeting someplace when we started to have a nice, pleasant conversation about the state of the world.
Suddenly, the conversation turned to sex.
To me, one of the best things about being a guy is that we as guys have the remarkable ability to instantly turn any conversation about any topic into a conversation about sex.
Our skill at making this smooth transition is a natural instinct that all men discover at a very early age.
Like when you were eight and your third-grade teacher called a mistake on a math test a boner.
Which, by the way, is still funny.
The other great thing about being a guy is that as many times as we turn a conversation to sex or hear a conversation being turned to sex, it never gets old, does it?
Classic Guy Example 1:
GUY 1: Hey, how about those Browns?
GUY 2: Brown? Why do you always have to talk about your girlfriend's anus?
Classic Guy Example #2:
GUY 1: So how are you going to tell your wife about going to the game tonight?
GUY2: I'll just bend her over the table and say, "How do you like THIS game, bitch?"
Classic Guy Example #3:
GUY 1: Y'know, the more I look at this project, the more I'm convinced that the derivative coefficient variable does in fact create a mononeucleic conundrum based upon a programmable function as it relates to the symbiotic analysis of spectral matter.
GUY 2: Uh huh. Hey, did you see Myrna the receptionist today? I LOVE that they keep our offices so cold.
EVERYBODY LAUGHS. THEN EVERYBODY WALKS BY MYRNA'S DESK.
The bottom line is this: Women know how to cook and iron and complain about cooking and ironing. Men are really good at talking about sex.
So anyway, a couple of weeks ago a bunch of us guys from the office were driving somewhere for a meeting someplace with a bunch of people who work for some company, and in the middle of our hilarious conversation about sex, one of the guys asked me if I ever wanted to be in a threesome.
Mind you, this guy wasn't asking me if I wanted to be in a threesome with him. He was just asking me if I wanted to be in a threesome.
At least, I pray to Jesus that's what he was asking. And I'm Jewish.
My response to his question was swift and true. My answer was unwavering and confident. My reply was honest and forthright.
"Why in the hell would I want to disappoint two women?"
Everybody laughed. But I didn't really know why.
I wasn't kidding.
Why in the hell would I want to disappoint two women?
It's bad enough to have one woman look at you day after day…night after night…year after year and say the same thing to your ugly mug: "Are you serious?"
Why yes ma'am, I do believe I was.
But to have two women look at me and say, "Are you serious?" in hi-fi stereophonic sound, well, that would be more than even a man of my stature and prowess could handle.
Believe me, I've spent a lot of time thinking about this.
Specifically, when I was 15.
In my bedroom.
But today, as good as a threesome sounds in theory, I'm convinced this would be something far too complicated to even attempt to pursue.
For even a man of my stature and prowess.
Imagine this: you've got two girls lying naked in front of you.
At some point you have to stop sitting there and thanking God for this miracle that he's bestowed upon you. You now actually have to move toward one of them.
Hypothetically, let's say I'm in this situation and I make the decision to approach naked Girl A.
Within fifteen seconds, Girl B will find herself an emotional wreck, detached, unwanted, and psychologically and physically distraught over my choice.
Above and beyond her normal feelings of emotional wreckage, detachment and unwantedness.
For me, this was my decision-making process:
"Hmmm, let's see. Do I take the naked girl? Or do I take the naked girl?"
For her, my choice was a statement about her life, her persona, and the size of her hips.
If the situation were reversed, mind you, and I was one of two guys sitting naked with a woman and I watched her attack the other guy first, I wouldn't be thinking, "What's wrong with me? Why did she pick him first? Do I have too much hair on my back? Does my breath smell?"
"Darn, I thought she would like love handles."
No no no no no.
I'd be sitting there thinking, "Hey look. An empty body cavity. Come to papa!"
The next major obstacle to overcome with this hot two-on-one action would be the issue of performance.
Let's get one thing clear:
When it comes to satisfying a woman, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.
Everything I try? Total guesswork.
If things work out, it's total blind luck.
You want me to do what, where? When?
The only position I know other than, "Can I get on top of you?" is "Will you get on top of me?"
They say if you give a monkey a typewriter and enough time, he'll eventually type War and Peace.
That would be me and a vagina.
Give me one and eventually I'll figure out what to do.
I mean, I think I sorta/kinda/maybe know what women want to be done down there.
I'm just not sure it's worth the effort.
C'mon, who has all that time?
I've got TV to watch. Sleep to catch up on. Food to eat.
For chrissakes, my beginning, middle and end lasts, like, two minutes total.
Then I have to spend the next half-hour in payback hell.
It's just not fair.
Not only is this an intolerable amount of time for me to do anything in life, but I have to spend it acting like I care after I've already completed my own personal caring about thirty-one and a half minutes ago.
Now imagine multiplying that by two.
Um, I don't think so.
I don't have that much patience. That much energy.
And as an added bonus, I'm too selfish.
Besides, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.
For the last 13 years, there's only one woman on earth who's aware of the fact that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.
Quite frankly, there's really no need to bring this to the attention of any other female.
The truth is, my wife understands and accepts my ineptitude.
I'm not saying she likes it. But she's obviously found enough good things about me to compensate for the fact that I'm not the Don Juanberg I appear to be at first glance.
Frankly, one of my biggest concerns with this whole girl/girl scenario is The After.
The hugging. The cuddling. The smoochy-smoochy talk.
If there's one thing on earth I was not put on earth to do, it's The After.
I don't like The After. I don't care about The After.
I like The Before.
The Before makes me happy. The Before is all I was hoping to get out of this whole thing anyway.
I can guarantee you this thought has never gone through my head: "Goddamn it, I wish this part was over so I could cuddle now."
I completely understand, however, that if there's no After, there will be an extended period of time until the next Before.
The After is tough enough with one woman. Let alone two.
I have no need for two Befores, either. One is fine.
And trust me, one Before does not equal two Afters. Unless I know there's going to be another Before after the After. Which isn't really a Before.
It's an After after The After after The Before.
Like that's gonna happen.
I also don't know why they call it cuddling. Why don't they call it what it really is:
"Listen, I'm Going To Hold You Next To Me Until I Fall Asleep Or Until You Tell Me It's OK To Turn The TV On. Whichever Comes First. Okay?"
Of course, all of this talk about a threesome is completely irrelevant if you can't get by the defining concern of the day:
I'd actually have to find two women who'd be willing to have sex with me.
That would be 1-800-NO-SHOT.
The thing is, I'm a virtual lock to reach the goal of my mission with one woman. What would an additional two breasts bring to the picture?
Other than two additional breasts.
Two other breasts that would laugh at me. Mock my ineptitude. Make me feel more worthless and incompetent than I already do.
Breasts that would join together with the other breasts to point out my inadequacies, my inefficiencies, and laugh at my expense.
Why would I want to disappoint two women? I already know what it's like to disappoint one.
I knew I should've trusted my instincts 25 years ago.
I knew I should've just stuck with my Farrah poster and my right hand and I wouldn't have had to deal with any of this.