The fundamental frequency of guy thought
From Monica Jackson's blog, The Way There: "Okay, tell me the truth. Do you ever go to the grocery store or somewhere like that, and count the guys you’d possibly sleep with in a ratio to the ones who are ick, and work it out mathematically—and figure out when is the highest likelihood of the greatest concentration of fuckable men at particular grocery store at any one time?" Thank you for asking this question, Monica. Why? Cuz I never would have guessed that women think this way. Guys, yes. Beginning at puberty, sex never leaves our brains (except for a thirty minute interval after each orgasm). True story. Hospitalized with meningitis, my arm burning up with intravenous antivirals because my doc once, once, had a patient with herpes encephalitis, my kidneys shutting down because IV antivirals are Bad Juju, and a petite, pretty, barely-speaky-English Eastern European nurse puncturing my hand for the fourth time to set a fresh line, all I can think about is Night Shift Nurses. Typical exchange in the Hobbit Household: Karen: I thought you were tired. Me: I am. What's your point? So, Monica, to answer your question: do I ever? I always. Even in a room full of buffarillas. (Now, there's a masochistic game. "You have to screw someone in this room, or else your family will be stricken with a plague of chiggers. Who do you do?") Because the inescapable fact is, guys are never not thinking about sex.
Writing is a brain-intensive task. Once I'm in the groove, my brain's testicular cortex goes dormant and utters nary a squawk. I might go three or four hours without thinking about cooch. You might think this is a contradiction of my thesis, but it's not. Behind it all, I have to ask myself: Why do I write? For the groupies. Some wiseguy of an author (Miller? Faulkner? Help me out here) once commented that men write exclusively for women. For the love of a woman, for the promise of sex, something like that. Maybe it's an oversimplification, maybe not. One thing is certainly true: I harbor a belief, a superstition, an unquenchable hope that every humorous or poignant or insightful thing I write will flip Karen's mental switch and get her thinkin' what I'm thinkin'. What I'm always thinkin'. I'll close with a hetero version of whom-would-I-do. 1. Ginger or Mary Ann. Mary Ann. Ginger scares me. Mary Ann, by virtue of being in Ginger's shadow, would do anything to hang on to me. Hmm. I wonder what Mrs. Howell would be willing to do . . . 2. Morticia Addams or Lilly Munster. Lilly had an off-putting, frumpy je nais c'est quoi. Besides, she's used to Herman's schvanzschtucker; my penis would do naught but make echoes. Morticia, all the way, baby. 3. Yeoman Rand or Uhura. Uhura. Boobs and brains. 4. Wilma Flintstone or Betty Rubble. Betty. I prefer brunettes to reds; also, Betty is married to little ol' Barney. I'd be the Anti-Barney. Only problem would be if big Fred is schtupping her on the side. 5. Cat Woman or Poison Ivy. I'm not usually a Michelle Pfeiffer kinda guy, but Michelle's Cat Woman, rrrowrr. And since I gave you dames a passel of unpalatable choices, this ought to balance the score: 6. Michelle Malkin or Ann Coulter. Jeez. I outdid myself with cruelty on that one. I think I'd rather do Jeanne Kirkpatrick. 7. LaVerne or Shirley. You're thinking I'll choose Shirley, right? Younger, prettier, brunette. But, no. Penny Marshall got the best lines in that show, and subsequent history has shown her to be the brains of that operation. I'll take LaVerne. 8. The Golden Girls. Rue McClanahan, cuz she never forgets her premarin cream. Awright, I'm outa here. Any of you want to offer me another must-duo, I'm game. D.