I’ve put my dick in other girls; she’s sat on other guys’ dicks. Drives us both crazy but there’s nothing to be done about it. You can’t unfuck somebody. It counts forever. Now that I care about this girl I’ve come to detest alcohol, nightlife, biology. How dare anyone who is not me enjoy these things. Particularly, how dare any other male enjoy these things with a girl who would then eventually come my way. Reprehensible. Maybe the Christians were on to something.
Cleaning the place yesterday and we found a condom wrapper by the bed. Not from her; we don’t use them. There are a hundred million reasons to date someone, but that’s #1, in bold and all caps. Because wrapping it up is like having sex with nerve damage. It’s like getting an honorary degree in fucking. Yes, you did have sex, but only technically. Not in the filthy caveman way that the thrum in your loins commands you to.
I swept it up. It’s old. Don’t worry about it, babe. It’s from the Jurassic era.
Then I went to empty the dust pan. Knew it was about to be an icy five minutes. Because you know how the mind of a woman works. Everything is heightened. Her seeing a condom wrapper in my place is like me finding a drawer of large dildos in her place that are labeled “NOT Fred’s Dick.”
So fucking what if you’re a player, or if you were one. One night stands are the opposite of hard. You’ve got hot hot hormones working for you. Throw some booze on the fire and it’s game over. Bragging about it doesn’t even make sense, but tell the gents that. These guys are holding out for a high five like they shot bin Laden. Meanwhile a relationship is a 10,000 night stand. Sustain that, motherfucker. And the whole time through you gotta be a chef and a therapist and a hostage negotiator and keep the house inspection-ready. By comparison this is what you have to do to be a player: know the lyrics to “Shots.”
But there’s more. Since she moved in the real question has been this: how on Earth do I find myself the time and place to jack off.