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So let’s get this straight.
This is a story about romance.
Well, it’s not a story. I mean, it’s not something somebody made up. It’s about me. And yeah, in case you’re wondering, I’m a guy.
Surprised? Sure you are. You figure those words just don’t go together. Romance, with a capital R. Guy, with a capital G. You’re probably sitting there and smirking. What could a dude possibly know about romance? You figure we’re big on sex. But romance?
You’re right.
Romance is not a male thing.
And that’s exactly my problem.
The bottom line is that whatever you think you know about men and romance is pretty much correct. You figure we’re big on the F-word as long as it stands for Fuck and not Forever.
And we are.
Sure, some of us fall off the cliff. Guys get engaged. They get married. If it works, good for them. Just leave the rest of us alone, okay?
We like life precisely the way we’re living it. Unencumbered. Nobody to answer to. Work hard, play hard. Drive fast cars or do whatever it is that turns you on, lie around on fall and winter Sundays unshaven, a box of take-out pizza and a six pack of beer not more than a few inches away, and watch football until your eyes glaze over.
And have sex.
Lots of sex.
Slow sex. Fast sex. Sex in five star hotel rooms. Got to say, there’s something special about banging a woman against a glass wall overlooking Manhattan. Or in the corner of a museum where somebody might walk by at any minute. Nothing wrong with beds, either. Big beds, with lots of room for action.
Sex is always fine.
Men like doing it, thinking about it, talking about it. Using all those four letter words to describe female parts and the male parts that go with them. And you’re already yawning because you figure that’s what this is about and, really, how many different ways can there be to describe—sorry, ladies—your basic fuck?
Okay.
But you’re wrong.
One, that’s not what this is about.
Two, I don’t believe in basic fucks. Each time is different. Not just positions. Fucking—sex, if you prefer that word—is never the same twice. At least, it shouldn’t be. There are endless variables. Where you are. How you’re feeling. Are you in the mood for fun? Maybe for something dark and a little dirty? Something accompanied by rose petals and moonlight? Let’s put it this way: If the man in your life delivers the same screw job day after day, year after year, I’m sorry for you.
But, as I said before, none of that matters because that stuff doesn’t apply to this situation.
See, this confession—I guess you’d call it that—this confession isn’t about fucking. Why would it be? As you may have already figured, based on what I said about basics, I’m just fine with fucking. In fact—not to be boastful or anything—I have been told that I’m just about perfect with it.
Still, the truth is that dudes can have a good time just jacking off.
Wait.
I don’t mean that. Not exactly. Sex is a hell of a lot better with a woman than it is with your hand. What I’m trying to say is that the best part of sex is watching the woman I’m with get turned on. Watching her come. I love that, love knowing I’ve done that for her.
So now you’re rolling your eyes and you’re calling me, what? An arrogant SOB? An egomaniac? A jerk?
I’m not any of those things.
I’m really a nice guy. Seriously. The people who work with me, who work for me—they all like me. Strangers have been known to smile at me, even in the subway where nobody smiles at anybody. I get along with little kids—my three-year-old niece adores me, but hey, the feeling is mutual. Dogs tend to wag their tails the minute they see me. Even cats purr when I pet them.
Anyway, my best friend, Cooper Holloway, is into genetics. He’s got a doctorate in biology and he says none of this is my doing. He says it’s in my DNA and I shouldn’t feel so good about women finding me so, you know, fuckable.
He’s also got the irritating habit of reminding me that he does as well with the ladies as I do. He says it’s his charm, good looks, and intelligence—but that it my case, it’s strictly my looks.
In other words, I have my chromosomes to thank.
