I am getting laid this weekend

Holy hell. I’m getting laid this weekend. 

Did you hear that tremendous sigh of relief? That’s me, knowing that I’m going to get laid this weekend.

Now usually I’m one for the “enjoy each day” attitude, since leaning forward for something in the future just leads to wishing your life away and then wondering where the time went. Despite that, I hate this week. This week can roll over into a ditch. This week is what is standing in the way of me and a good lay.

Surprisingly enough, it has been awhile for me. By the pop culture definition I’ve been remade into a virgin. And while the thought that a half-year without sex makes you a virgin again never made any sense to me, it does provide the best explanation of Christianity’s whole “Virgin Birth” thing. 

Anywho…despite the stream of dates I’ve been having, I have yet to find chemistry with any of them. This is really a statement of the dating streak I’m on, since my standards aren’t that high. I definitely have my little list of, “Ugh, really? I slept with that person? Okay, I’m just going to chalk it up to I must have felt it at the time.” 

I don’t think I’m doing anything different now. I’ve just been feeling…well…nothing.

So when a previous booty call, let’s call her Ms. Booty, was freed up to be a booty call once again, the only appropriate response is to coordinate schedules and clean off the toys. And then stare at the calendar and wonder what the hell I can do to make the weekend arrive faster.

So the thing that I love about masturbating (like that segue?) is that even when you feel that nothing can satisfy that craving, you have a good orgasm and that craving is spent. Suddenly your mind is freed up to think of other things, like how you should put together a fundraiser for the community center. I swear, the world is run by satisfied people. Ever wonder why so many politicians end up screwing around? I say we cut them some slack. It’s better to have them thinking clearly.

But sometimes masturbating does not provide this relief for me, and instead turns into this cruel positive feedback loop that grows immunity to cold showers and thinking about Margaret Thatcher. And I had been doing just fine! Despite the dryspell, or perhaps because of it, whatever hormones are at fault just sat back and played cribbage for awhile. It was only when Ms. Booty started considering what she would pack for an overnight bag that cribbage didn’t cut it anymore. 

Goodbye, clear thinking! Hello, frustration! I wonder if this is what it is like for guys all the time.