This morning I awoke from colorful dreams of Brazil to find out that alas, I was still in Saint Paul and it was still winter. And snowing like a bitch to boot. I checked my left hand for wedding rings like I always do, breathed a sigh of relief to find none there like I always do, then performed my morning ablutions. At this point let me say for the record that “morning ablutions” is an enormous euphemism for what actually occurs, but I'll let it stand this time. Anyway, after preparing my Kahlua and Grape Nuts and a fifty-five gallon drum of industrial-strength coffee I finally decided to confront the big question of the day: do I make the booty call or do I take care of business myself?
You see, a gentleman of a certain age needs to regularly exercise his prostate. If you don't, the seminal fluid turns into a greasy brown sludge and starts hissing and bubbling and then you get a prostate infection where it swells to the size of a large bagel and then the infection spreads to your testicles which quickly become withered and useless and people make fun of you in the locker room. I have all this on good authority from several proctologists; at least that's what I think they were saying as they were cackling to themselves and giving me digital prostate exams. I wasn't listening as closely as perhaps I should have been. Anyway, the point is that with your prostate, like so many other things, it's a “use it or lose it” situation. And I certainly prefer using it over losing it. Really. A lot.
Which brings us to today's dilemma: booty call or manual calisthenics? Since I'm single these days (what a waste of manflesh!) these are really the only two options available. Now I'm reasonably certain I can make the successful booty call. If there are no visiting sports teams in town, my ex-girlfriend will likely be amenable to having great sex with me. I know this because the last time she called me she said “Want to have great sex? Come over.” I'm pretty sure I set a land speed record in getting there. Of course this was purely in the interests of continuing my regimen of prostate exercise, not because I really wanted to get laid. Unfortunately in my rush to get over to her place I forgot to bring my earplugs, and as a result I couldn't hear anything for two weeks afterwards. Smirked a lot, though.
However, there are some drawbacks to calling the ex-girlfriend:
She is insane.
I have a new cell phone number which she does not yet have. I'm not positive I want her to have it, either. See previous item.
I would have to find some clean underwear and trim my toenails. Call me Mr. Considerate.
I lost my earplugs.
It's morning and I'm not yet drunk enough to pretend to be interested in anything she would have to say to me.
She is insane.
In other words, there are some good reasons why she's an ex-girlfriend. However, offsetting all these drawbacks is the promise of an opportunity to experience intimacy with another human being, which has not happened in quite a while. Really loud and strenuous intimacy, but intimacy all the same. I'm a man, I have needs, for chrissake.
So what about the other option? There's not a lot to that needs to be said about having sex with myself. In fact, it's a pretty straightforward proposition and doesn't require clean underwear, or much of anything else for that matter. This directness has a certain appeal to me today. Frankly I'm pretty lazy on Sundays (and on the other days of the week that have a 'd' in them). So with Option B I get to maintain some shred of dignity by not calling the ex-g and achieve a resolution to my dilemma in markedly less time than would otherwise be the case.
At this point I'm going make one of my abrupt and unsignaled lane changes (honk and give me the finger if you must, I can take it) and tell you about an ad I saw recently. The relevance of this ad to the subject at hand (so to speak) will quickly become clear. The Smitten Kitten, a “truly feminist sex toy store” in Minneapolis, is having a Singles Mixer and Masturbation Workshop on Valentine's Day. Quoting from the ad, “No RSVP Necessary. Everyone Welcome. Bring A Friend!”
Me being me, I have some questions. The first question is, can I go? This promises to be an event positively bursting with journalistic possibilities. Not that I'm a journalist exactly, but what the hell, I would be a journalist that day. It turns out that yes, indeed, I can attend. Their web site informed me that the event is for “all genders and all orientations.” Great, I probably fit in there somewhere. And I think this is pretty decent of the Smitten Kitten folks. Because if there are a lot of guys there, the cleanup afterward is going to be a bitch.
My next question is, if you have a friend that you can bring to a masturbation workshop, why don't you just stay at home and fuck the hell out of them instead of going to a sex toy store? Just saying.
Also, I have to say that combining a “singles mixer” with a masturbation workshop is a clever idea. The singles mixers I've been to have been compelling arguments for staying at home and mastubating, as opposed to actually going out with the losers that show up to said mixers (present company excepted of course). So kudos to the Smitten Kitten for providing a powerful incentive to learn how to masturbate as well as (presumably) instruction in technique. (“This next one's called 'The JFK.' Now if each of you would select a partner....”)
By now you must have realized that the booty call idea is as extinct as the dodo. Take care of business it is. If you want something done right.... Besides, what if someone recognizes me at the Smitten Kitten and the crowd begins clamoring for special instruction from the master? It would suck to be out of practice and botch it in front of a turgid congeries of all genders and all orientations, all eagerly watching me as I demonstrate a couple Tantric Sex Secrets of the Orient. So I should really keep my hand in, for the sake of my adoring public if not for my prostate.
So please excuse me for a bit, and happy Sunday. See you at the Kitten. Bring earplugs.