It’s Tuesday, February 23, one day away from my monthly report! I stare at the calendar and scream out “GAH!” as if my cat just stuck his claws in my neck and started kneading.
It reminded me of this guy I once knew who thought that choking made orgasms better.
No, I’m not going to go into more detail.
Speaking of sex, I’ve watched a few Outlander series segments, and a Marco Polo, finding that I’d rather use the sex scenes to make hot tea, prepare a snack or go to the bathroom than watch someone simulating sex.
If I want to observe something copulate, I’ll go to a ranch during mating season. It’s the same old bull, and the movements aren’t that much different.
Whether the guy can get it up for the camera or not, watching someone have sex on my monitor is like taking a vacation by watching a Nat Geo special. There are some things that just aren’t the same unless you’re there doing it, like…
that moment when you’re meditating
and feel the oneness all around you…
where the chains of absence, of hate, of fear,
of danger and mortality are lifted away.
It’s true that orgasm, and the 5 minutes of afterglow, reaches for that experience, but that’s like comparing dollar store milk chocolate to a box of Godiva truffles.
You’re probably yawning about now, wondering where I’m going with this. As the title suggests, to a woman, having sex with her is a lot like inviting you into her house.
Any woman with an ounce of self-respect rarely invites a stranger into her home.
When you enter her home uninvited, you’re invading her space.
If her house looks like this:
She will love you for life if you believe with all your heart that her house looks like this:
Or, better yet….THIS:
She might even invite you for a swim in her pool.
When she thinks enough of you to make you dinner, wear that cute lingerie you love, lay in bed and bare her…uh, soul to you — and all you want is a blow job — you’re like the family druggie who broke into the house, ate the best food in the fridge, left the kitchen a mess, and absconded with her computer to sell it for enough money to buy one more rush.
If you think that all women in the western world want candy and flowers on Valentine’s day, and you can slide by the other 366 days this year, the battering ram you call your second brain might as well tear down her house and get it over with.
Any man who can fix the plumbing, mend the fences, lovingly care for the landscape in just the right way at just the right time, and care for her home as much as she does, will NEVER have to buy another box of chocolates or another dozen roses again.
For most women, a man who treats her house like a mansion is a far greater gift than living in a mansion while being treated like she’s a shack (up).
Like one of those blue tarps adhered to a roof damaged by a hurricane, that about covers it.