Question #1: Would he do it?

Like me, many men were stuck watching the women's NCAA basketball championship last night as it hovered over the bar. Men don't watch women playing sports the same way men watch men. To us it's more of a twisted beauty pageant. I appreciate a woman's athletic ability, but she's still a woman.

Now, don't be alarmed. When you present this hypothesis to your man, he deny it, as he was taught. Still, as I watched all six-foot-eight, size-seventeen-shoe-wearing Brittney Griner make her opponents look like pests, my internal conversation was predictable.

"Would you do it? Would you have sex with her?"
"Yep."
"Really?"
"Sure, why not?"
"She's so tall."
"I can find something sexy about every woman I see."
"She's not very feminine, you know."
"I disagree. I see high cheekbones, a lovely smile, and her skin tone is deliciously light chocolate."
"It just seems like it would be awkward."
"All the more reason to try. Sixty-Nine would probably be out, though."
"Have you heard her deep voice?"
"Yes, so what? She can't control that. Again, it's unique and could be fun. I'm usually the cuddler; it might be fun to be cuddled."

Wipe that look of disgust from your face, woman! It's completely natural for a man to consider every woman he meets as a potential mating partner. There's no harm if the thought never manifests as deed. It's not like I'm going to tweet her.

"Dear @BrittneyGriner, congrats on whipping the skirts off those Notre dames. How would you like to meet me in the desert for some celebratory margarita disposal? #whynot"

Well, maybe.

Anyway, you women do the same dang thing. I present Exhibit A from the movie Animal House where the coeds are discussing Frank, who posed as Fawn Liebowitz's boyfriend to get Shelly to hook up with him.

"I think Frank was kind of cute."
"Ewwwwwww!"
"I really felt sorry for him."
"Eeee-ewwww!"

See? Shelly would (and did) hook up with Frank, even though he was engaged to her friend who was killed in a kiln explosion. Shelly's friends considered him gross. So be it.

"That's freaking fiction, you dolt."
"Oh, and me hooking up with Griner isn't?"
"Men are so disgusting."
"Wait a minute there, Missy. Are you trying to tell me you never considered, even for a fraction of a second, whether you would have sex with me?"
"Um, not really."
"Liar! The only difference is women typically add something to the proposal to make it more interesting."
"Such as?"
"Circumstances, location, alcohol, and whether any of your friends will find out."
"Nope."
"You're saying you never thought, Would I have sex with Phil if I were in a serious sexual slump, we had a chance meeting at a writers' conference in Vegas, and we polished off a pint of Patron?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Until now. Tee, hee."
"Make that a fifth."

Between the Ears

I think I have two minds: one reflexive, one romantic. Some people call them instinct and conscience. Whatever. The challenge is to keep them in balance. Too much instinct leads to recklessness. Too much conscience leads to paranoia and stagnation.

Here’s how the two minds teeter-tottered last night as a sexy woman approached me.

“Wow, she’s cute.”

“Is she coming over to talk to me?”

“I wonder what her nipples look like—big, juicy eraser tips. Yum!”

“Holy shit! Shit is coming over to me. Hm. Maybe I have something on my face.”

“She has real tits. Thank God! I want to touch one. Natural boobs are such rare finds these days.”

“How kind of her. She complimented my shirt. She seems sweet.”

“I picture her face down on my bed, squealing in ecstasy while I bang away. Ah, the sound of my balls slapping against her clit.”

“Boy, I hope she’s not looking to have children. I can see myself hanging out with her.”

“Oh, that’s a delicious ass right there. I’m definitely going to hit that. In fact, I may sleep on it.”

“She’s a single mom with a great job. Intelligence is such a turn-on.”

“When she finds out I’m fixed, she’ll want to mount me in the parking lot.”

“There’s no wedding ring. Oh, the possibilities!”

“She just touched my thigh. My cock is twitching. She’ll probably want to play ‘Just the Tip.’ Nah, she’ll beg me to be balls deep.”

“Now, how do I go about extracting her number? I wish I could get over this shyness.”

“Cum dripping off her chin. No, wait … sprayed all up and down her back, running down her butt cheeks. I haven’t made shower babies lately, so I should have a heavy coat stored up.”

“She likes movies. That’s awesome. Maybe on date three we could curl up with a nice bottle of wine and watch a romantic comedy marathon.”

“She’s an ultra-orgasmic squealer. I bet she squirts like the fountains of Bellagio.”

“I love that perfume she’s wearing.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be gently awakened by her using my manhood as a pacifier. Morning sex is my favorite.”

“Yes, she gave me her number. I wonder if she’s ‘the one.’ I’ll play it cool and wait twenty-four hours to call.”

“I’m going to fuck her in her bathtub tonight. We’ll get so crazy that the bathroom will resemble a sudsy rainforest. I can’t wait to soap up her ass.”

“I feel tummy butterflies. This is awesome. I don’t want to seem too forward, though. She’ll see it as desperation. Gosh, I really do like this woman. I could talk to her for hours.”

“I bet she’s freaky. She’ll want to invite other women into bed. She must have a shaven monkey with puffy lips. She probably tastes like cherry cordial juice. Yum!”

All for naught. I got her number and a gentle goodnight peck after I courteously walked her to her car. She left without wearing a single drop of my semen.