Once upon a time, I had a queen-sized bed. It belies my current sleeping arrangement. I was the only “only child” I knew who had a bunk bed with an imaginary spaceship captain named Lobo occupying the lower bunk. I had a twin in college – which is deceiving because the word “twin” leads you to believe that two people can co-exist on a mattress the size of a Jolly Rancher. Plus, it was kinda hard to perform my three favorite sex moves, The Tom Skerritt, The Drapes of Wrath, and The Hairy Musket AKA The Korean Fulcrum, with almost no room to pivot, vault, or build momentum with a running start.
But with age and responsibility comes a bigger bed. After a few years of floor fucking and bending the ladies over rails and benches, I finally hit the majors. I enjoyed the space. The freedom. Rolling over once and not falling off. Purposely hogging the middle like the King of Siesta. Unfortunately, someone went to the library and picked up a book on regicide. Someone equals The Chancellor of Queef Valley. Library equals a party to which I wasn’t invited. And book equals mystery cock. So, I downgraded to a futon.
If I was truly happy in a queen-sized bed, why would I do such a thing? Well, it’s simple really. No woman would ever fuck a man with a futon unless she was a cock-eyed Romanian weightlifter with a 40-pound labia, pubic ticks, and a clit with sideburns. And I don’t plan on renewing my passport anytime soon. Lately, I’ve been a magnet for bipolar, shitting in a closet on a Wednesday, palm licking, batcock bananas women who can somehow speak Aramaic in their sleep with no formal or informal training. Because I suffer from “Knight in Shining Armor Syndrome”, I tend to give these beautiful girls the benefit of the doubt. Who knew my weakness was pussy? And should that weakness encourage or discourage my pursuit of gynecologic sciences as a career AND hobby?
After a few years of intense research, I came up with a way to choose a suitable companion. Suitable means she’ll poison me with persistent nagging and mood swings instead of, oh I don’t know, hemlock. Now, what’s the best way for a woman to keep a man honest? Eliminate sex. If a woman removes sex from the equation and the man cares enough to respect her wishes, he truly cares about her. If he indulges her for a while and gets bored, he’s probably selfish and only willing to hang out until the blowjob fairy makes her daily rounds. Ya with me? Sure you are. Okay, by that logic, the best way for a man to keep a woman honest…don’t shower her with attention. I’m not saying be a dick. If you have a good woman who appreciates and reciprocates your love and attention, DO NOT take that away from her. But, if you feel like she isn’t grateful, don’t accomodate her. She’ll either look elsewhere (which proves her reign atop Fuck Mountain shall be indefinite and Clap-filled) or she’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you in her life because she truly cares. For example, TiVo-ing that Time Life informerical with Kenny Rogers because I happen to think it’s fucking glorious when he covers the covers of Anne Murray.
This research will prove valuable when I’m ready to upgrade my sleeping situation. Until then, I remain The Princess and the Pea minus the menses and inexcusable affinity for John Mayer – although my body IS a Wonderland.
