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Complete archives for People

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As we eat dinner in relative quiet, my thoughts take on the form of a sixth grade word problem:

Jayson and Lolita typically commence foreplay almost as soon as they climb into bed at night, and things proceed rather quickly from there, with intercourse beginning, on average, 13 minutes later. The white trash diner they are presently sitting in is approximately 11 minutes away by car from Lolita's house. The Happy Pills in Jayson's pocket take approximately one hour to kick in when taken as directed. However, Jayson is railing against medical science by ingesting the better part of a cow and an inordinate number of MegaFries before taking the pills. Jayson can probably get Lolita to go to bed an hour after they arrive home tonight after dinner. Maybe an hour and a half. Assuming that it would be much better for the pill to kick in too soon (i.e. while brushing teeth) as opposed to too late (i.e. after Lolita has already entered REM sleep and has become less than receptive to any elephantine sexual overtures in the middle of the night), then just when pray tell should Jayson take the frickin' pill?

Actually, if sixth grade word problems had been like that, I probably would have done better in math.

I excuse myself and head for the can. In the stall, I open the container and shake one of the blue diamonds out onto my palm. I pop it. Then I pop another one. Just in case. You know the old drug culture wisdom: "If yer gonna take one, you might as well take two." That's that. Here we go.

On the way home Lolita announces that we have to stop for gas.

"No! We can't!"

Shit. Did I actually just say that?

"What? Why not?"

"Uh ... nothing ... no. We can. I'm sorry. I just kinda wanta get home."

It's when she asks me if I'll "pump it" for her that it happens.

Boner Time.

Jesus. It might just be a coincidence. It's only been 20 minutes. And I ate the Fat Burger. And since when does the idea of pumping gas qualify as "stimulation"? But this is not merely happenstance. This is a severe and random case of Hammercock the likes of which have not been seen in my pants since I was about 14.

We pull in to the gas station and for the first time in years I have a matter of seconds to figure out how best to hide a completely unsolicited woody. Doing a weird little dance/hop-thing as I get out of the car, I somehow manage to work it quickly into "high noon" position, and am thus able to ambulate with relative normalcy and pump the gas.

I start smiling. Man, this is great. The surprise in my pants is like Elvis in the '68 comeback special, when he showed up all slimmed down, clad head-to-toe in black leather, looking like a bad ass, and everybody was damn glad to see he could still rock. Yeah. That's me. The voices from my crotch that were wailing and gnashing their teeth just 24 hours ago when I was ordering this stuff online are now cheering like college guys at their first wet T-shirt contest. There is much rejoicing throughout the pants.

Lolita is looking at me in the rear view mirror. She is giving me her "sexy" eyes. I think she senses something is up, as it were. I look at my watch: 27 minutes. I holster the gas pump and dance a sick little jig that involves several savage pelvic thrusts on my way to the passenger's seat.

"You're in an awfully good mood all of a sudden."

Well, darling, I think, that's because if I were to stand facing due north, you could tell the exact time of night by the angle of the shadow cast in the moonlight by my alarmingly erect member. But all I actually say is, "Let's go home."

It's around 11:30 when we finally get back to her room. She begins looking through her formidable collection of CDs for something to listen to: a process that experience has demonstrated can take hours. I'm starting to worry that I'm going to peak (no pun intended. Actually, no pun achieved. Never mind) here, only later to be left "hanging" when the time comes. I try to ignore the voices of doubt: the effects must last for hours, right? They must. No problem. Let her choose a CD. I'll just lie languidly across her bed and try to exude my godlike state of arousal without being too obvious about it.

Thirty-seven minutes later. Thirty-seven minutes. The appropriate CD has been selected and implemented. Soft music fills the room.

And now it is time for Love.

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