Esquire’s Chris Jones writes: “There is a spectrum of female lovers just as there is of men. The trouble is, most women act as though they’re sexual Olympians, as though they’re doing the men in their lives the greatest of favors merely by presenting themselves like a downed deer strapped to the hood of a car. Some of you are deluding yourselves. Sex is not like pizza. Only ******** are.”
I used to talk a big game when I lived at Rieber Hall at UCLA.
I was working on this explicit novel.
I met an Asian girl across the hall. She read my novel. She pointed out this part that was anatomically impossible.
It featured a woman, a car, and a gear stick.
I thanked her for the feedback.
I’d yet to be with an actual woman.
A month later, my critic was my first.
A few weeks later in our relationship, she said she was feeling insecure because I’d been with so many women. That’s when I broke down and told her the truth that she was my one and only.
She really liked that.
Six years went by. I moved back to Los Angeles. She came over one night with a sack of potatoes. One thing led to another.
Afterward, she asked, “How many women have you been with me since me?”
“About ten,” I said.
“They’ve taught you well,” she replied. “You used to be really awkward.”
“How many have you been with since me?” I asked.
“One,” she said.
Glad to be in LA, I was off to the races. I went to every shul I could. I went to parties. I placed singles ads. I met women. I heard the words — “Let’s get this over with.”
I thought I was pretty special until shortly after my 40th birthday, a woman I’d been with just once started writing these vengeful blog posts about what a lousy lover I was. She called me “Thumper.”
My next girlfriend said she could tell when I was no longer interested in her pleasure and only in my own.
My next girlfriend said I was methodical.
After that, I stopped messing around and took up sex addiction meetings.