Seems like a long time, fifteen years. Heck, there are lots of kids out there in the world who haven’t been around that long. But it’s an absolute fact, as we get older time just flies by a whole lot more quickly, and while those first fifteen years of life seemed to take quite a lot of it, time, the next were much quicker, and even an entire career shift and new degree program or two between thirty and forty five seemed to zip right on by.
The next fifteen year milestone will be hitting age 60, no biggie, a couple of years, and completely irrelevant to this piece, because the fifteen year marker that I will reach this year, very soon, although I don't know the day, just near the end of the year, is not associated with age, it’s one of those, gosh, it’s been fifteen years since things.
Gosh, it’s been fifteen years since I’ve gotten laid. Had sex. Made love. Been conjugal with another. Fifteen f**king years. Or non-f**king years, as the case might be.
It’s not that I haven’t had the desire, or the opportunity. Once I almost had both at the same time, but the man in question and I were both quite drunk and that depressed me, it killed the desire, that and the man’s drunkenness. He’s a nice guy, it’s just that drunk is never sexy.
Once there was even a very well hung sex therapist who offered himself up to me, I could tell he was well hung, given that he was wearing look at how well hung I am pants, and he’d explained that he was into sexually gratifying women, that was just his thing, what he’d decided to do with his life after leaving his career as something spectacular, I don’t remember what.
I darned near giggled at him, just withered the bounce right on out of his bulge when he delivered his line about sexual gratification. He didn’t know about Buzz Lightyear. It’s also pretty clear he didn’t know much about women, or at least about this woman.
And that’s just it. He thought he knew all about women and their gratification. Problem is, he thinks like a man, the way lots and lots of lots of men think anyway, and it darned near made me giggle when he started in with his smooth talking seduction. My response to it did not thrill him, at all.
Every once in a while I think, well, I could just run on out to the Boston Billiards Club or even the freaking library for that matter, but certainly any bar in town, and pick up an old fart and bring him home and f**k him, just so I don’t have to say “Gee, I haven’t gotten laid in fifteen years.” Friends tell me I could likely even pick up a young fart, men do not tend to be particularly choosy (not all men, I know, I know) in whom they’re f**king, especially if one is not too abhorrent to look at and the least bit witty.
But alas, I do not. Erica Jong wanted her zipless f**k, there are countless works of fiction out there about them, those more perfect unions, and really, I don’t want a perfect union or even a zipless f**k, and as I sit here and contemplate fifteen years of sexual faithfulness to an appliance, I smile.
What makes me smile is thinking about those guys I have been interested in over the past fifteen years. None is a rock star, or hero, or over the top dream man. In fact, mostly they’ve been deeply wounded human beings, guys who really needed to be held, made love to, men who would no more be into servicing me and my emotional and sexual needs than any of the others in my life have been.
Fifteen years. It’s no time at all.