A great shot of me from my senior year in high school. I grew into the ears, but never outgrew the horns.
In my pre-teen days, when I was oozing enough testosterone to kill a herd of male giraffes, I spent nearly every waking hour of my mulleted life occupied with dry humping. My visions included dry humping anyone and anything—sporting equipment, the leg of my third grade teacher, and even the wind if, by chance, it offered enough resistance and a good angle.
In my one and only make out session during high school that didn't include a failed bra release and female lacrimation, I finally got my wish. I dry-humped Leanne Darling's leg to orgasm and for a moment glimpsed a sexual life where I would no longer wear a scarlet letter. Like a zoo-bound gazelle who had suddenly leapt a fence to freedom, I imagined a future where a girl might never again use the word "mounting" when referring to my lovemaking skills. I also glimpsed effortlessness and credibility, but these feelings were short lived. I soon became extremely guilty and ashamed of the dark spot soaking through my stonewashed jeans.
I am, for lack of a better metaphor, the Billy Cundiff of the Venusian arts and cursed with a brain that heavily favors the instant replay—of every failed relationship field goal I've ever attempted.
"Women might be able to fake orgasms, but men can fake whole relationships." Sharon Stone
Recently, thanks to an aging astrologer friend, I've come to understand my life as a hologram and how each little part, when dissected, reveals everything I need to know about the sum total. For instance, the exact way I make my bed, when dissected, has revealed as much to me as a full year in a therapists chair. If I cut corners with the top sheet, where else am I cutting corners in my life?
With this in mind, the following blog entry is meant as an experiment of sorts. By dissecting the monumental failure of my marriage, I hope to also cleanse some of my karma when it comes to bombing tests, making horrible first impressions, and saying the dumbest things on job interviews and first dates. It's my hope that by doing this I will ultimately arrive in front of my next potential lifelong partner baggageless and inspire you to do the same. I truly hope you find a way to empty your compost pile, using the model I've outlined below.
Tomorrow we can start with the affirmations, a new therapist and a diet free of self-judgment. Today, though we should revel in reality, gorge ourselves one last time on lard encrusted chicken wings and cry ourselves to sleep. I hope you, dear reader, will also strive to succeed to fail so you can later succeed just as I plan on doing once this is all written.
1. First-Time-with-Her Sex
The GMC Pacer, like me, was once considered ahead of its time....which is what a therapeutic blog is also called.
It happens in the passenger's seat of my mom's GMC Pacer
. It's our first date. We've consumed 28 cups of spiked green punch at a holiday reunion. We're getting down to business when a green horizontal waterfall emerges from her mouth. It splashes onto my yellow tuxedo and the force of it twists her in a circle. The world moves in slow motion for the next five minutes. The passenger-side door opens. She rolls out. I grab at her coat and roll out after her. We travel down the driveway, finally coming to a stop under her father's rhododendron bush. I think I see a shooting star.
2. Breakup Sex
There's a window of time where the break up sex window closes and the little dingy sets off into the cruel, cold sea. Miss the window and you'll likely have to swim out alone and drown without her ever knowing how much you cared. You'd think after our monumental first date that the fat lady would've started singing loud enough for me to hear. But, I have a theory about second chances and I've found I have a knack for dog paddling out after dinghies. Though we decide together that the relationship isn't working and we agree it's an official breakup, we also feel "What the hey, one last tryst won't hurt anyone." And the breakup sex winds up being amazing! Better than either of has had in the past 2 years! We agree to stay away from the GMC pacer long enough to get engaged.
3. Makeup Sex
The frying pan eventually came out after she lost her engagement ring and ran out of flower pots.
When she chases me down at the bus stop the first time and throws her engagement ring at me I never consider it a red flag. In fact, as it becomes a part of our weekly routine, I begin to appreciate her athleticism and the creative adjectives she uses to describe me. Like Pavlov's dog I begin to equate things being thrown at my head with incredible makeup sex. Inanimate objects—flower pots, the recycling bin, cereal bowls—now fill my active fantasy life.
4. Wedding-Night Sex
It's a perfect day. She looks gorgeous. I feel handsome. She truly feels comforted by having a husband. I feel afraid. But, our wedding is awesome. On a beach in Cape Cod, a hand made houppa hanging over us, a priestess before us, a fire burner to our left, nearly a hundred musical instruments surrounding us.
But the day is long, the afterparty longer and while driving to the lake-front cabin in the wee hours of the morning we get lost. To make matters worse, while carrying my bride into the cabin I drop her and pull something in my back. We wobble toward the bedroom and that's when it hits me that something doesn't seem quite right. The gentle kitchen breeze carries the smell of cigarettes into the room and Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" wafts over us. That's because there is a methed out cleaning lady bent over the sink with a cigarette. After the argument, I curl up in the fetal position beside the bed and dream about wedding night sex.
5. Honeymoon Sex
Next time you visit your physician ask her about recent studies related to male and female balding patterns.
A few days after the ceremony, I wake up in a hotel room on the shores of Kauai, Hawaii and look at my wife and think, What in the hell I was thinking when I agreed to shave my head with her.
"Without hair," she'd said on the plane, "we'll be able to love one another more fully. And without material constraints, we can train ourselves to look beyond mere physical appearances."
I begin to doubt myself as I watch her sleep. And as the Hawaiian sun crawls into the room and begins to illuminate her hairless head on the pillow, her mouth seems to hang slacker and wetter than I ever remember it being, her breathing sounds louder, her body seems larger, her head smaller, her overall shape lumpier.
I've been married less than 72 hours and my relationship has already hit a speed bump. The hairless woman sleeping beside me in no way resembles the beautiful girl I walked down the aisle with. It seems I've married someone who resembles a big bald man. I give a tiny scream. What little honeymoon sex we will have will be tainted with this realization. My astrologer would call my wife's bald head a very visible sign of the end.
6. Let's Have a Baby Sex
Dissect the message and win a prize.
Fortunately we never make it this far. Much like when I'm the ring bearer in my uncle's wedding and fall backwards off the church stage. By the time I get my neck brace off he's filing the divorce papers. And so my wife and I never actually get to this type of sex. From what I've heard from my friends though, it can be hit or miss—women turn into teenage boys and guys turn into machines. In some ways I think it's a cruel mistake the way men and women are made. We come into our sexual prime at the age of sixteen and we never quite catch up to our female counterparts until it's too late. By then, we're going to bed at 7:30 pm and our biggest turn on is microwaving oatmeal in the morning.