Valentine's Dick
Once, a hypothetical was posed to me:
In one room was a bunch of women.
There's a door there, somewhere
A harem, of sorts.
The other room:
Not to scale.
One woman. Who loves only me. Which would I chose?
The second room, I answered to utter incredulity.
Let me explain. I first had to imagine being that powerful of a magnet for women. Fame, money, etc. Dint of personality. Bod.
Driving the pecker bus through Gashville.
Then the type of woman who would favor being among a line of others.
I'll quit Meth on my birthday, okay?
Okay, I'm not being fair.
I know people who can balance their sexual dance card and make it work. Those who have side-chicks and side-dicks and keep their primary happy. Some studies report they are even happier than their monogamous cohort. Good for them.
And nobody likes sex more than me. No body. If I don't rub one out every few hours I risk an internal explosion. I love women of any race, height, or hair color. Hell, my hashtag on this post is #14 days of Bonerelia. But that's not the point.
Today is a day to consider love, not just sex. And at its essence is a bond. That call you have to answer, not by obligation, but because you have to fucking know what's wrong at 3am. That if left unanswered, would chew you up like a thresher.
Me on any given day.
A passion for the one that makes you turn away the other choices. Not because they ain't pretty (to misquote Linda Ronstadt), but because she means that much to you. A history. A life. A hand that I can count on and not just to number my lovers upon, but to lift me up when I fall. Because, I too, am the only one she has.
A love that isn't divided. Isn't distracted. Isn't waiting on a better offer. Because I'm nobody's fucking plan B.
Sing it, Jack.
Click to view