But for all that soft, pretty, good-smelliness there is the one great downside to women, quite possibly our greatest downfall as a gender, the one thing that has kept us from ruling the world (well, this and the fact that we’ve been busy carrying, birthing and raising the next generation of the human race). Ladies, you just can’t shut the hell up.
Don’t get me wrong. You’ve got a problem? Let’s try to work it out together. Want to practice a business presentation? I’m you’re audience. Need to vent? I’m here for you, babe. But when eight tellings of “Why I Chose Irish Myst Toenail Polish” interferes with my ability to get laid, I have to draw the line.
Which is just what happened Friday night. Cathy and I had agreed to meet expressly for an NSA date. Not a regular date. Not a let’s-get-to-know-each-other session. A wild, crazy, sweaty, orgasm-filled NSA date. We had wine. We had a bed. We knew how each other’s equipment worked. Panties should have been hitting the floor before the first glass was drained.
Instead, Cathy wanted to talk. A lot. But she blamed it on nerves so I tried to be understanding and make things more comfortable. I poured the wine, nodded in all the right places, gave some deep dreamy looks and touched her every now and then in my most soothing manner. All I got was three more stories about smoking pot in the Air Force.
Time to step it up. I curled up in my best sex kitten pose on the bed, and let my neckline drop a few inches, revealing my zodiac tattoo. Finally she notices and asks about it.
“It’s my sign. You know, Scorpios make the best lovers,” I tried to entice. I admit that I have only hearsay and my own inflated ego to back this up, but who cares? It was an opening big enough to drive a truck through. Instead, she goes off on all the bad Scorpio lovers she’s had.
Now I was getting annoyed. We were here for sex. We were not here to talk. You are not my friend. You are the chick I’m trying to screw. If Cathy had been Carl we’d be on our second box of condoms by now.
Obviously, I was going to have to make the first move. I thought it would only be polite to wait for her to pause. After the second hour, I decided I would just wait for her to take a breath. After the third hour, I contemplated just sticking my tongue in her mouth mid-sentence, but she was on such a roll I worried she would chew it off and keep going. I would be there rolling on the bed, screaming in agony with blood gushing from my mouth and she would still be detailing the hotel décor from her last trip to Austin.
Finally, I just left. I was mad as hell. It’s not that Cathy didn’t want to f*ck me. Based on her later emails, she did. But instead of going for it, she decided to dangle sex in front of me in order to get a captive audience. She wanted to talk more than she wanted to f*ck and that, ladies, is just not NSA.
****
This is nothing new. NSA dating was around since roman times.
Aw, maybe Cathy really was nervous. If so, she should’ve stopped talking for a minute and downed a couple glasses of wine.
Yappity yap yap yap. I dunno, I feel like I’ve heard my fair share of too much talking from the menz as well.
haha i’ve never personally done a NSA kind of deal, but i can definitely connect with how overwhelmingly talkative potential ladyfriends can be. this definitely got me laughing. and reminiscing.