Sometime after discovering that one's penis is an instrument of pleasure, we men find that women think so too. Most women, that is, and a lot of them wouldn't go on national tellie saying so, but it's true nonetheless.
This is a milestone in man's life, this coming to grips with the fact that the odd assortment of appendages between our legs has appeal to others. It's like finding that the lame-o rock collection you started at age nine has a purring, soft, sweet-smelling audience of top-flight geologists who can't wait to examine your granite. Purring top-flight geologists in mini-skirts and librarian-glasses.
It can blow your mind, that shit.
Which, for the most part, it does. We spend all our lives henceforth trying to replicate that moment.
It's a quest not entirely without reward, either. That teenaged naïveté never completely disappears. At the special moment, when it's clear she wants to have sex with MY penis, there's magic in the air. It's a warping of space-time, a kind of star-gate to a better universe. We don't pretend to understand the mechanics of this. Nor do we care, for it's a fleeting thing, and by that point other stuff's happening.
Stuff like ripping off my hot geologist's blouse.
Importantly, this fragment of (good) dislocation happens with wives and long-term girlfriends as much as with that new lady in your life. In fact, it's more pronounced, because of the contrast between that sweet person you like to make coffee for in the morning and the sex-devil she becomes. At one point of the evening you're balancing your checking account, then BOOM she's got her hand down your trousers with intent in her eye.
This is not the same person.........and yet it is the same person. Ah, the wonder of women.
Bottoms Up, Hot Geologists.
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