All of this also brings to mind the history of it all. Have women always faked, or is this more of a modern thing? Damn! It makes me wish I had picked that as my thesis back in college. It would have been a hell of a lot more interesting than what I actually wrote.
Ah yes, The History of Faking It. Chapter 1: Evidence suggests that as far back as the Egyptian empire women have faked their orgasms. Hieroglyphics tell us that the pharaoh Ramses's wife used to fake it. Being that he already considered himself a living god, he never suspected a thing.
My failings during grad school aside, my whole gist is pretty simple: if two people actually care at all about each other, then why go through any of this? Why not try a little communication instead? A woman can be a little more forthcoming and tell a guy what makes her scream, but also what she finds about as stimulating as studying differential equations. At the same time, a guy can do a little more then roll on, roll off, and then take their partner's word for it, “Good dog!”
They can actually try paying attention. It is possible. Sure, the brain tends to turn itself off in the moments leading up to sex, but the same is not necessarily true for during sex. Hell, at the very least, guys sometimes needs to concentrate on something else, lest things tend to end a bit quicker then they might otherwise prefer. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good ‘Who’s the better captain, Kirk or Picard?’ debate between my right and left hemispheres, but wouldn’t it be better to put that time to some good use? I’m sure she’ll appreciate it if she thinks you’re paying attention to what she likes.
Of course fair is fair. In finding out what the woman likes, she'll probably have to endure hearing about what us guys like as well. And while I've heard a few bizarre things that turn various women on, they tend not to stand up next to guy fantasies. (“Hey, baby, howsabout we pretend that I'm Godzilla and that you're Tokyo?”). Hell, I had this one friend who used to claim that his goal in life was to marry the first woman he could get to scream, “RIDE ME, CONAN!” to him during sex. He’s been married for a while by this point. Someday I’ll have to ask him if he ever got his wish.
The downside to all of this is that in reality sometimes even the best intentions just don't work out right. Sadly, in the battle of sexual godhood, sometimes you can shoot dozens of arrows and never once hit a bull’s-eye...even if you're really trying to. Trust me, I know. Even with the best attention, some people just can’t be reduced to a quivering mass of, “Thank you, oh mighty one!” no matter how hard you try. But I look at it this way...while I may never be fully housetrained, I can at least TRY to make it outside before I poop on the rug. I'm sure that has to count for something.
The Bingo Hell
Ah the things I do for love...or at least for a steady supply of sex. Unfortunately, in compromising myself, it becomes painfully obvious that I am no longer the master of my own destiny. Even worse, it makes me come to the realization that whatever pinnacle of coolness I may have achieved in life is now long behind me and all I can look forward to is a perpetual downward spiral.
Case in point was this past Saturday. In my mind, I should have been alone with my girlfriend doing all sorts of x-rated stuff or maybe out with my friends getting into various sorts of trouble. In short, there was a world of possibilities. Instead, I found myself in a bingo hall. Yes, I said a BINGO HALL. You know; that place where all the non-pathetic people under forty aren’t.
The weekend started promising enough. I found myself grabbing a train in to Manhattan, heading over to my girlfriend Lisa’s place. I arrived and almost immediately was swept back out the door.
“I made plans for us,” she said, dragging me down the hall.
OK, I thought, probably not a bad thing. Truth be told, the weekend was otherwise looking pretty aimless. Not that aimless is a bad thing. I’m a firm believer that everyone should have at least one waste of life weekend a month. Still, if she had made plans, then it would spare us the inevitable “Where do you want to eat?” “I don’t know, where do you want to eat?” back and forth.
So thinking that perhaps dinner and maybe a movie were at hand, or maybe a meet-up with some friends at a local bar, I followed with no objections.
“So what are we doing?” I asked as I was steered towards the subway.
“We’re heading over to Queens.”
“Queens? Found a new crack-house you want to try out?” I quipped.
“Not funny! We’re meeting up with my mom and some of her friends, then heading out from there.”
Ugh! Spending time with her mom was not what I considered to be a promising start. The crack-house I had been joking about was starting to look good. Still, maybe the plan was to spend a little time with her and then head out on our own. Worst case scenario was probably watching them swipe boring family stories with each other while I found a quiet corner and stared at my watch. I’ve had worse nights.
“OK so after we meet up with your mom, then what?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You’re not dragging me to your mom’s favorite S&M club are you?”
The withering glance I got back was enough to answer that one.
“OK. Well then it can’t be that bad.”
“We’re taking mom over to see my nanny...”
“OK, I guess that’s...”
“And then we’re taking them all to a bingo hall.”
“You mean dropping them off at a bingo hall?”
“No. We’re taking them and staying. I like to play bingo with my nanny,” she replied, as I began to assume that perhaps I had suffered a fatal stroke on the way over tonight and was even now on my way to whatever Hell the fates had sentenced me to.
“OK. And B I N G O was her Name-O. So why am I coming?”
“You want me taking the train back from Queens all alone at night?”
*sigh* She had me trapped. I mean I wouldn’t want to take a train back from there by myself in broad daylight and I’m not exactly petite. There was no way I could talk my way out of it without looking like either a pussy an asshole or both and she knew it.
So what’s a bingo hall in Queens like, you ask? Well I imagine it’s pretty much like a bingo hall anywhere else except with a lot more words like “you’s” being thrown around and maybe a slightly surlier attitude than perhaps a bingo hall in the suburbs. I don’t know. I don’t frequent many of them. Give me a call when I’m eighty and maybe we can discuss.
Overall the place was...hmm...no two ways about it; the place was scary as hell. Fuck that stereotype of the sweet little old lady. Step between them and their gambling addiction and they’ll turn into a Rottweiler. Down in Atlantic City, I’ve seen them threaten to beat people to death with their walkers if someone were to dare even look at their slot machine. The mood was very much the same here except the space was much more cramped, thus the angry old person per square meter ratio was off the charts. Throw in enough smoke to choke Joe Camel to death and you have a Queen’s bingo hall.
Lisa’s mom and her friends weren’t helping things either. They were busy entertaining themselves with stories of their respective sex lives. If I had one wish, it would be to turn back time to a point where I hadn’t heard her mom’s fat friend give a graphic description of what she and her husband liked to do with each other’s asses. “Next time wish for the crack-house!” I kept muttering to myself over and over again.
At one point, I made the mistake of trying to play a prank on Lisa’s nanny. She got up to get another pack of smokes. While she was gone, I hid her bingo chips as a joke. I did this despite Lisa’s near panicked warning of, “You don’t want to do that!”
Let’s just say the chips were very quickly found after a maniacal outburst from nanny along the lines of, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY GODDAMN CHIPS! IF I FIND WHO TOOK THEM, I’LL GOUGE OUT THEIR EYES WITH A PEN!” I don’t frighten easily, but then again I really have no desire to have my death certificate state “beaten to bloody pulp by person four times his age” as the cause either.
>
Thus I spent the remainder of the evening watching the various participants in a near awe-like state. Many of them were feeble. Many had poor eyesight and wore glasses thick enough to use as portholes on a deep sea sub. Judging by the coughing, at least eighty-percent of them were in the final stages of lung cancer from smoking Lucky Strikes since the age of twelve. Yet nearly each and every one of them had more then enough wit and energy about them to both juggle fifty bingo cards apiece as well as never miss a chance to scream out, “Fuck you, you retard blow jobber!” at the announcer every time he announced a number they didn’t have. And the announcer got off lucky. I’m damn near surprised each and every winner wasn’t outright murdered there on the spot. Yelling “BINGO!” in this place was apparently akin to murdering the rest of the players’ families in front of them with a smile on your face. Before that night, I never knew that you could use bingo chips in the same fashion as ninja stars.
So that was my evening. Lisa wound up wining about two-hundred dollars as well as the enduring scorn of every geriatric at the place. Her mom came out with all sorts of new ideas regarding what assholes can be used for. Her nanny went home pretty much hating Lisa for daring to win. As for myself, I came back just a little bit wiser, now knowing to never ever underestimate the wrath of the aged again. In fact, given the choice between visiting that bingo hall again and the rundown crack-house I’ve been alluding to, well all I can say is pass me that pipe!
The Mom Diaries
Dear Diary,
The feds are closing in. It’s only a matter of time now. I must move the bodies. But what if she finds out!? I’ve never felt such an attraction to anyone before, yet I cannot get caught. I must be strong. If she discovers my secret...I must ELIMINATE her!
Just kidding, honey!
Yes, I know you’re reading this. Why do you think I left it sitting out on my night table? If this were one of those ‘deepest, darkest secrets’ type of diary, then I’d have to be a freaking moron to not lock it up someplace where only I have the key.
And no, don’t worry, I don’t mind. As I mentioned, I left it out for you to find.
Before you start freaking out and thinking I’m some sort of weirdo, the explanation is very simple. I’m tired of telling the same story over and over again. Every time I’m dating someone new, it’s the same thing...
The holidays roll around and I’ll get cranky. You’ll ask me why and I’ll grumble something about flying back home to see the family. You’ll assume I’m afraid of flying and I’ll assure you I’m not. You’ll then wonder why I’m acting up and I’ll tell you that I’m glad to be living on the West Coast most of the year because three-thousand miles between me and Mom is just dandy for me. Since I’m a good son, however, I’ll never hesitate to visit during Christmas, Easter, or whatever holiday calls for it.
You’ll then get all serious and start wondering what deep dark secret is causing me to cringe at the thought of flying back. Was there abuse, beatings, worse? And I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told past girlfriends, no there’s nothing of the sort.
Mom and the rest of the family are just weird. Every time I go home, I wind up rolling my eyes so much that I’m sure that one day they’re going to blow through the top of my skull. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. If there’s nothing dark and foreboding in my past, then it can’t be THAT bad. I’d probably even agree that you’re right. Maybe I’m just a snob, or maybe I’m just boring. Regardless, the fact is I like a little normalcy and going home is a sure way to know that I’m not going to get it.
Thus I have written this diary of some of my past visits, so that you might know that of which I speak and also so I don’t have to go through the same story again. Don’t get me wrong; by now you’ve probably figured out that I love the sound of my own voice as much as the next egomaniac. Still, in some insane part of my mind this all makes sense. So just bear with me here for a bit. At the very least, you may get that good juicy bit or two you were probably hoping for when you picked this thing up...
July 4, 1998
I could already tell that this was going to be one of those trips just by the way things started. The flight into Newark was lousy as usual, but at least I had the benefit of being seated next to a real hottie for the entire trip. That’s almost unheard of in my book. Normally I think I have seat me next to your largest sweatiest travelers stamped on my forehead. Not so this time. I had an aisle on one side of me and a fine brunette on the other. All that was missing was a glass of cognac and a good cigar.
Or maybe not. Unfortunately said smoking hot brunette was also a militant lesbian. Since I apparently also have unload your belittling thoughts on me, I don’t mind stamped on my face, she spent six hours regaling me with her thoughts on how men were scum. The fact that I was...err am a man apparently went unnoticed by her (a typical blow to my ego) and I had to listen to enough so that I would have probably cheered had the pilot come on and mentioned the mountainside we were about to plow into at five-hundred miles per hour.
That didn’t happen, sadly, and instead I disembarked, grabbed a rental car, and drove down to the Toms River. I was crashing with some friends this trip, as my mother’s place is small and her landlord is a colossal asshole. I should’ve gone for the hotel.
They knew I was coming and had set out a very generous spread of beverages for the night ahead. Unfortunately, they decided to get started long before I arrived. When I finally pulled in, I was just in time to see the beginnings of a drunken screaming match between them. My attempts to calm things down only made it worse as I then somehow wound up in the middle of it. Sadly, to this day I still don’t know what the whole blowup was about. Between the slurred speech and the random changes of topics regarding things they hated about each other, I have no idea what set things off or what it was ever really about.
They both finally passed out in the wee hours of the morning, maybe an hour shy of me mixing a Drain-o cocktail and waiting for sweet oblivion to take me away. Oh yes, it would have gone down nice and smooth right about then. At last, though, I was greeted by silence and thus I...well, I realized it was almost morning. There was no sense even trying to sleep at that point, so I stepped out to walk around the area a bit and maybe catch a bite to eat before heading over to Mom’s.
I got to her place around mid-morning and was greeted with the usual barrage of hugs as well as concern whether I had some wasting disease since I was so much thinner than when she had last seen me (I had in fact put on ten pounds). Trying to not get sucked into a conversation about my eminent demise, I walked in and sat down on the couch.
“What’s this?” I asked, gesturing at the coffee table.
“Oh your Aunt Mary is putting together a scrapbook for your grandparents and wanted some baby pictures of you.”
“That’s fine, but why these pictures?”
“They’re so cute!”
“Can we avoid putting naked baby pictures of me in front of grandma and pop?”
“But they’re cute,” she persisted. “I knew I should have put them away. The cards said you’d be in a mood today.”
“The cards?”
With that, Mom was kind enough to let me in on her little secret. She had learned how to use tarot cards and was now consulting them for every minor aspect of her life.
“I use them for everything, but especially before I play the lottery.”
“Uh huh,” I commented. “I see how that’s working out for you.”
My logic aside, she still insisted that the cards worked. According to her, she had used them to successfully whammy the machines at a local arcade. As proof, she showed me the new microwave her whammy had won her.
However, before I could suggest she let me know when she had whammified the pick-six, she informed me that she was hungry. She then said she would be happy to let me treat her to a local restaurant she was in the mood for. Always subtle, that’s my Mom. Always generous with her own portions when someone else is footing the tab, too, I m
ight add.
So that’s what we did. After lunch ended, we went back to her place to hang out for what I thought would be a few hours before I would head back. Not so.
Mom kept turning the conversation back to how busy I must be and that if I felt I needed to leave I could. After about three of these suggestions on how busy I was supposed to be, I outright asked her what she was getting at.
“You need to leave.”
“We just got back here.”
“I know and it’s been great seeing you, but you have to go.”
“You haven’t seen me in months and you’re kicking me out?”
“Sorry. I have somebody coming over and they’re going to be here in a few minutes.”
“You made a date for this afternoon when you knew I was coming over?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re going out for a date, if you get my meaning,” she said with a disturbingly salacious wink.
“Stop, I don’t want details!”
And with that, she quickly kissed me goodbye and more or less threw my ass out onto the street. At least I was able to count my blessings on the way back. She could have asked me to stay and wait while she went into the other room to whammy her guest.
Thanksgiving 1998
I should have known how this was going to go from the walk over. I was staying with the same friends as last time (my Mom still had the same asshole landlord). They had picked me up from the airport, but were unable to drive me over to Mom’s place. It was no big deal as it was only about a two mile walk. Or at least it wouldn’t have been a big deal if ten minutes into my trek the skies hadn’t opened up to let loose a monsoon’s worth of rain. But hey, at least it eventually stopped...pretty much just as I was knocking on Mom’s door.
The Poptart Manifesto Page 8
