Ditch Him

I play “Phil-in” often these days. My sarcasm is lost on many of my female acquaintances as they actually consider me to be somewhat of an expert on the male psyche. Silly girls.

“Come have a drink with me.”

“Isn’t that what your BF is for?”

“He has his kids tonight.”

“I doubt he would approve of your rendezvous with a man holding substantial arrears of loving.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Sounds like trouble in paradise. Do tell—what’s up with that, kitty cat?”

“Meet me and I’ll tell you.”

“All right. You’re penciled in and don’t forget my liquid fees.”

“Scotch or vodka.”

“I’m feeling all vodkish and limish tonight.”

Women who hang with me convince themselves I won’t take advantage of any momentary weakness. I remind them not to push me.

When I arrive at my office, she’s already mid-lemon drop. She’s exceptionally primped considering her intentions to see Dr. Phil as a platonic advisor. I immediately entertain thoughts of nibbling her shoulders as I release her bra-stings. She brings me back to reality.

“I’ve slept with my boyfriend six times and we haven’t had sex.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oral?”

“Nope.”

“A little hand release, perhaps.”

“None.”

“This is serious.”

“I have no idea what his problem is.”

“Well, far be it for you to ask him, so allow me to run a few possibilities past you.”

“Shoot.”

“Could he be gay?”

“No. He has a hard-on when we make out, especially in bed.”

“Have you tried to touch it?”

“Yes and he sometimes let me, through his pants, but when I try to go under he stops me.”

“He has huge, puss-filled genital warts. Case solved.”

“Ew! He does not.”
“Has he flapped your pappy?”

“My what?”

“You know—plucked your pink violin?”

“Huh?”

“Jesus Christ, woman … HAS HE FINGERED YOU?”

“Only through my pants and underwear.”

“Maybe he has some sort of performance anxiety.”

“You think?”

“I’m not saying this has ever happened to me, but I’ve heard that some men have hair-triggers and if they don’t get the chance to launch a pregame batch into a tube sock, it could spell embarrassment later.”

“Please tell me men don’t beat off into tub socks.”

“…”

“You have deeply scarred me. I will never see a sock the same way again.”

“Well, fishnets are nicer, but they’re messy.”

“God.”

“Just tell him you’re coming over later tonight and he will either have penetrated you or returned your hair pulls and toothbrush.”

“I like this guy. I don’t want to lose him over something like this.”

“This is not a little thing, my sweet. An orgasmless relationship is always a dead-end.”

“What if he has herpes or something?”

“A distinct possibility. I’m sliding half my chips over ‘performance anxiety’ and the other half over ‘he’s getting it from someone else.’”

“Oh shit, I haven’t thought about that.”

“Maybe it would be best to end it now and consider sleeping with your therapist.”

“Nice try.”

“Damn it.”

I may be guilty of exiting relationships prematurely, but most of my female friends waste too much time trying to make something work, regardless of the warning signs. Odds say it won’t get any better, darling, so cash in, and move along.