Cool. Did you know about this stuff? It’s called oxytocin. Check this out—according to Wikipedia:
“Oxytocin evokes feelings of contentment, reductions in anxiety, and feelings of calmness and security around the mate. Many studies have already shown a correlation of oxytocin with human bonding, increases in trust, and decreases in fear. One study confirmed that there was a positive correlation between oxytocin plasma levels and an anxiety scale measuring the adult romantic attachment. This suggests that oxytocin may be important for the inhibition of brain regions that are associated with behavioral control, fear, and anxiety, thus allowing orgasm to occur.”
Whoa!
It sounds to me like a cocktail (heh, heh) made from a combination of vodka, tequila, marijuana, firemen’s slacks, and Johnny Depp’s sweat. That’s some powerful stuff right there. A woman explained it to me last night.
“This is why women need to be careful about whom they sleep with. Once a woman has sex with a man, oxytocin is released, causing her to feel bonded to him—even if he’s a dumbass.”
“No way.”
“Yep. It’s natural and difficult to override with logic.”
“Well, that explains why some ex-lovers put up with my nonsense. It also explains why I see so many lovely women with knuckleheads. OK, maybe I’m just jealous.”
“It seriously messes with a woman’s head because even if she knows the man is wrong for her, she can’t help coming back to him.”
“Ha! I’m a cock crack dealer!”
“Really.”
“And a juvenile one at that. Oh, come on—I kid. Here I thought men lured these women with wealth, biceps, humor, and Benzes. Have you experienced this phenomenon?”
“Yep.”
“Fer reals?”
“All right, I admit if the sex is awful, it’s easier to break away, but if there are feelings and sex is good, there’s a problem.”
Huh. How can I use this new information to my advantage? Well, for one thing, I had better learn to be exceptional in bed. I’m loading up on G-spots for Dummies books and items ribbed for her pleasure as we speak. Also, if I’m not sure I’m into a woman, I need to override my willy and avoid penetration until I’m prepared to deal with her oxytocin.
Wouldn’t it be cool if oxytocin came (heh, heh) in pill form? One minute I’d be at the wine bar seated next to a woman showing me her shoulder and the next minute it would be “[*sigh, blink, blink*] You’re dreamy.” I know—I’m dreaming.
This stuff isn’t exclusive to women, you know.
“Oxytocin injected into the cerebrospinal fluid causes spontaneous erections in rats.”
Boing! How long before Pfizer figures this shit out and we wind up with clubs full of rat boners? Mark my words: Within five years, Red Bull will be replaced with Red Rocket. At least women will be able to check out the merchandise before wasting three dates, a Brazilian wax, and expensive panties only to be poked by a pindick. Bars will do away with the under-bar hooks for purses and hat racks. Patrons can locate the closest bender and hang away.
So, ladies (as if you need me to tell you this): Be very, very careful with whom you copulate or you might find yourself addicted to a dick.
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