Until I Get Married

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Recovering from last night’s festivities, so I can’t really wrap my head around 500+ words on anything but Advil. Later, especially for those on the East Coast, I will hit you all with something.

Until then, I hope everyone had a great New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day is starting off the right way.

Happy New Year!

This list is a lot different from the one I wrote a two months ago (“A Rather Odd List Of Things That Turn Me On“) because whereas the list of things that turn me on get my attention, this list of things get my heart. Theyhave more to do with her character and the type of woman she is, than what she does for me.

For example, in the post of odd list of things that turn me on, I say I love a woman who can make me a good taco, because I do. That is a turn on. But a woman who doesn’t know the first thing about making a good taco, so she calls my mom up to find out how she used to make tacos for me, then gives it a try herself…that woman has my heart.

So here it is: Five things that make me want to marry her instantly.

SHE DOESN’T WANT A WEDDING

I don’t want a wedding either! Great! Let’s go to the Justice of the Peace, handle our business, and have the party to end all parties at a reception with friends.

SHE LOVES THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS

A woman who is down to watch the game is a turn on, but a woman who has grown up loving the same football team I love will get me to the altar quicker than a quarterback can say, “HUT!” I dated a woman last year who was a huge Pittsburgh Steelers fan just like me and she still has a piece of my heart.

SHE DOESN’T LIKE ROLLER COASTERS

I hate roller coasters, absolutely deplore them as a matter of fact. There is no reason I want to go that high that fast all upside down and stuff. So it feels good to know the woman I’m dating will never be the type to drag me by my hand to some hair-raising contraption, talking about, “Oh come on, don’t be a baby!”

SHE HAS THE SAME SLEEPING PATTERN AS ME

I’ve written at length about how frustrating it is to date someone whose sleep regimen is the polar opposite of my own, but I can’t stress how important this is. I truly do believe the woman who is meant for me is the woman who wants to be in bed by 12 a.m. and up by 6 a.m.

SHE FORWARDS ME ARTICLES ABOUT THINGS I CARE ABOUT

“Saw this article, and I thought you might find it interesting. Check it out and we can talk about it.”

I don’t remember what the article was about, but I do remember receiving this email from a woman I once dated and thinking how I would so marry her if it wasn’t for the fact that she went to bed all late and loved riding roller coasters.

Not too long ago, I asked a 25-year-old woman if she ever cheated in a relationship. “I have,” she said. “When I was in high school.”

“Oh, that doesn’t count,” I shot back.

“Why not?” she asked.

I then explained to her my philosophy of how very few things we do in high school should be held against us as adults. If she were to tell me she cheated on the last boyfriend she had, two weeks ago, I can gather she probably has some commitment issues. But cheating in high school? I cheated in high school, that’s not the problem. I’m 28. I cheated when I was 27. That’s a problem.

Unless you’re a freshman in college, or your senior year of high school was the apex of your cool (to which I would feel sorry for you if that were the case), any experience regarding relationships in high school should be swiped clean from the record. It doesn’t matter, good or bad if it happened in high school. Anything you did back then goes the way of your letterman jacket, and you don’t still wear that do you?

The truth is, even if we throw away the letterman jacket, some people still want to wear the experiences they had in high school on their sleeves. They will say high school matters, and of course it does, but so does middle school, and elementary school, and the first steps we ever took. In the grand scheme of things, every single day of our lives matter.

What I’m talking about is allowing high school to matter more than any of the other times I mentioned. In 2010, I’ll have graduated high school 10 years ago, and I can’t think of one thing about me then that is the same today. Not one.

I changed since high school. I don’t look the same, dress the same, talk the same. I don’t even think I’m the same height (a little bit taller). When I graduated from high school, I was 18. Do the math and add up the common sense. Nothing about me is the same, except for my name, and therefore, nothing about me back then can apply to me now.

We can talk about high school love affairs, and things like losing one’s virginity (for those of us like me, who at least waited until high school) until we’re blue in the face. But why should I expect anyone to take seriously, a period in my life where the biggest step involved sharing my locker with a girl, when since then, I’ve actually shared an apartment with a woman? I give consideration for those who went through four years of hell in high school, whose lives changed in ways that impacted their core and shaped them forever, but such seismic events are not the ones I speak of.

The events I’m talking about are things like cheating on a girlfriend or boyfriend in high school, or getting one’s heart broken in high school. Those are the types of things that don’t matter to me. As a matter of fact, if ever I am dealing with a woman who is still hurt over losing her high school love, I am going to feel obligated to check her ID and make sure she’s not getting me into an R. Kelly type of situation.

And for those who are wondering: Of course all of this is coming from someone whose high school years were largely uneventful. Some of my high school classmates read my blog, they know like I know, I wasn’t that popular, and while I did my lose virginity in high school, I wasn’t a ladies man of any sort (not to say I am one now). I played in the jazz band. I went to my senior prom with a pretty girl who also happened to be a dear friend of mine since the first grade. Prom King, I was anything but. Yet, I’m pretty sure, even if things were different and I was more Zach Morris than Screech Powers, I would hope to learn much more about life after those four years of seven period days were over.

Who we were in high school and what we went through in high school are nothing more than memories worth sharing from time to time. I learned a lot back then, but since then, I’ve learned so much more.

They say some experiences are like the first time, no matter how many times they occur. I say, no matter how many times it occurs, the first time is the one we remember the most.

First does not have to mean best and sometimes it can mean worst, but no matter the result, nothing changes its position. Before it happened again or at all, the first time was an introduction and sometimes these introductions stay with us forever and changes our lives. Other times the introductions will be all we get.

Below, a list of man’s most memorable firsts.

The first girl he ever liked.
The first girl who ever liked him back.

The first girl he ever asked to dance.
The first girl who ever said yes when he asked her to dance.

The first girl he ever kissed on the cheek.
The first girl who ever kissed him on the cheek.

The first time he ever saw a sex scene in the movie, which is usually the exact same time his parents saw a sex scene in front of their child for the first time.

The first girl he ever kissed on the lips.
The first girl he ever made out with.

The  first time he ever touched a breast.
The first time he ever put his hand between her legs.
The first time he smelled his fingers afterward (he remembers the smell too).
The first time she ever touched him between his legs…way different than the first time he ever touched himself between his legs.
The first time he kissed her in between her legs.
The first time she did the same thing in return.

The first time he ever watches an adult film with his friends or by himself. Very gross. Very cool.

The first girl he ever brought over to his parents house when his parents were home. The first girl he ever brought over to his parents house when his parents weren’t home.

The first time he put on a condom.

The first woman he ever had sex with.
(Not to be confused with the first girl who let him touch her breast or touch in between her legs or any of the other firsts I have already mentioned)

The first orgasm he ever has from having sex.
(Much different than first time he made himself have an orgasm.)

The first time he ever made a woman have an orgasm.
The first time he ever heard of women faking orgasms.
The first time a woman told him she was faking her orgasms. (What do you mean you didn’t have an orgasm?)

The first girl he ever calls his girlfriend.
The first girlfriend he ever broke up with.
The first girl who breaks up with him.
The first girl he ever cheats on.
The first girl who doesn’t take that mess and cheats on him back.

The first time the condom breaks.
The first time he forgets to bring a condom
The first time a woman lets him have sex without one.
The first time he feels so stupid and feels so good at the same time.

The first time a woman tells him she might be pregnant.
The first time he has to buy a pregnancy test, and if it’s positive,
The first time he ever visits an abortion clinic or
The first time he ever sees a sonogram of his first born child.

If the results are negative, he still must deal with the first time he ever gets tested for HIV and other STDs.
What a scary first time.

The first one night stand and the first time he had sex with a girl whose name he doesn’t remember. (Funny how he remembers that but doesn’t remember her name. )

The first time he never hears back from a girl after they had sex for the first time.
The first girl who told him the first time they had sex was going to be the only time, because it was just sex. (He didn’t know girls did that too.)

The first time he has sex with more than one woman at the same time. He definitely remembers that.

The first time he has sex with the one woman he knows he wants to have sex with for the rest of his life.

The first time he has sex with her is a lot different than the first time he had sex with any other woman, because it’s
The first time he experiences intimacy.

The first time he says “I love you” to this woman
The first time she says, “I love you too.”

The first time he gets down on one knee and asks her to marry him.
The first time she says yes.
The first time they get married.

Hopefully, it’s the last time he ever does such a thing, because from what I heard, there is nothing like the first time a man gets a divorce.

Dear Ex Girlfriend Who Cheated On Me,

I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing right now, but I just want to let you know when you cheated on me, you were wrong. I don’t know exactly when you did what you did or who you did it with or where you did it or even how you did it, but I know you cheated on me. I know this because if I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times, Mama ain’t raise no fool.

You think I’m so clueless as to believe you didn’t go behind my back and do a little something with some guy? Let me answer that question with another question.

Do I look stupid to you?

Even if I can’t prove how or when you cheated on me, my gut tells me to believe you did. Back in the day, I used to think, No way, not her. She would never cheat on me. I’m too good of a man to do such a thing. I used to beat my chest and tell all my friends, “I ain’t ever had a girl cheat on me!”

Now it all sounds like some naive young man talk.

I’ve grown up. I’ve seen some things, and when I say things, I mean scandalous, hush-your-mouth type of things from the most wholesome of women. In some cases, I was even a participant in these scandalous things. A hard pill to swallow, for sure, but I’m a man, I can take it. I realize I have made mistakes of epic proportions, if not with you with another woman. Therefore I probably deserved whatever you did, much as it makes me cringe to say that.

But as Jay-Z said, “You don’t get a n**** back like that!”

Why did you have to do what you did with the guy that you did it with? What was it that made you cheat on me in the first place? Was it because I did it to you and you wanted revenge? Maybe I never cheated on you in the first place, but you just couldn’t help y0urself. Was that it? Did you feel entitled to do it because someone else once did it to you? Did you feel better about yourself after it was done?

All these questions are rhetorical.

I don’t really care what you’re reasoning is, because no matter which way you cut it, cheating on me was foul. Foul. Foul. Foul. Foul. FOUL.

And like I said before, I still don’t know who you are, still have never found out exactly what happened, but do me one favor: Keep it that way.

Sincerely Yours,

Jozen

P.S.

Don’t do it again. Thanks.

P.S.S.

This letter applies to you too, future ex-girlfriends!

Tonight the liquor gave my aggressive side the cold shoulder, and instead decided to dance with my sensitive side. I’m up against the wall, already drunk and reflective, which means I’m going to do something no man should do: I’m going to vomit my feelings all over someone.

Tonight, I miss everything about my ex. I miss her smell, her touch, her kiss, and her hand in mine. Everything. Her laugh, her smile, her voice, and her company. Everything. Her good morning, her good night, her coming, and her going. Everything.

But I can’t call her, no checking in to see how she is doing. Those are the rules of our breakup and I have followed them for like the past six months. I’m not making any phone calls, not checking in to see how she is doing.

Repeat to myself over and over again for emphasis because being drunk will not be an excuse.

If I do see her, cool. No problem. I’m just going to say, “What’s up.” Then keep moving so quickly I don’t even hear her answer.

Wait until I see her again.

But it won’t happen tonight, that much I know. Tonight, it’s Halloween and I’m in Chicago. Good thing too, because this  random girl grinding on me right now without permission is just what I need.  She is helping me more than she knows, giving my mind a 15-minute recess from my ex-girlfriend.

I keep thinking: Well done, random girl. Well done. Keep going, random girl. Keep going. If you stop, my mind starts. So don’t stop, random girl. Don’t stop. Any other night, random girl, I’d know what to do next. But no aggressive drunk tonight, random girl. No aggressive drunk tonight.

Music shuts off. Club empties out. Liquor’s consumed. Recess is done.

I’m walking back to my boy’s car, it’s 2:15 a.m. here. That means it’s 3:15 a.m. in New York City. But it doesn’t matter which time zone I’m in. It’s late everywhere.

Check my phone. No phone calls from my ex tonight. Damn, for some people,  Halloween is a special occasion to call loved ones. Isn’t it?

Why did my boy have to park so far away from the club? Doesn’t he know I need to pass out in the seat and get rid of my ex’s cobwebs stuck in my head? The more we walk, the more I talk about her cause I am someone-get-that-man-some-water drunk.

Turning to my boy I say, “Man, I don’t even miss the sex with my ex. I mean, I do, but you know, what we had was more than just sex. We lived together. I miss after the sex just as much as I miss the sex itself. I miss the way….”

My phone is ringing at 2:15 a.m. Chicago time, 3:15 a.m. New York time and it’s my ex. And it’s late everywhere.

Count to three then say sober, Jozen:

1, 2, 3 SOBER!

Answer the phone now.

“Hello?”

“Hi, are you home?”

“No, I’m in Chicago.”

Long pause. Fill it up.

“I’m drunk. I miss you. What are you calling for? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Long pause. Her turn to fill it up.

“I wanted to come over. I’ve been having dreams of you.”

“Oh man, I’m so happy to hear that. Tell me about them.”

Long pause. Her turn to fill it up again.

“I wanted to come over tonight. I’ve been having dreams of the sex we used to have.”

Long pause. My turn to fill it up.

“Oh, you do? I miss that too.”

We talked for a few minutes then, about the sex we used to have. When we got off the phone, I was still drunk but pissed. She called because she was having dreams about me; missed sex with me. She called because I am a man, and she thought a man would love to hear her say such things.

I am a man, I acted like it was exactly what I wanted to hear, when the fact is, I missed everything about her. Everything.

Instead, I kept it all in. I am a man, and men don’t vomit their feelings.

Tonight, I’m driving to the bar because my brother plans on getting shit-faced. Me? I don’t need to do any drinking. My internship is the next day and  I have the alcohol tolerance of a baby so with me behind the wheel, it’s best if I stick to my one can of Red Bull. Let the caffeine work its magic on me.

We get to the bar, see my brother’s friends, and he  immediately goes into everyone’s-best-friend mode at the bar, buying shots for anyone who so much as smiles at him. I’m playing my position, quietly scoping out the scene, sitting on a stool with a glass of Red Bull in my hand when out of nowhere, a girl walks up to me. I don’t know anyone in Queens, besides my brother, but I can tell by the way this girl is looking at me, I’m about to know her.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say back.

She then introduces herself, and I can’t remember her name, but I think Ms. Leading is proper. So Ms. Leading and I strike up the type of conversation two people have for the sake of feeling better about what they’re going to do later.

Meanwhile, my brother is doing a great job of getting drunk. Actually, he’s doing a superb job, mixing his clear liquors with the dark ones, accepting drinks from other people and not caring in the least bit what’s in them. He has, on his hands, the perfect storm brewing.

As I float back and forth between Ms. Leading and other random people at the bar, I hear a loud thud outside on the back patio. I run outside. My brother is passed out on the cold concrete of the patio, done for the night. Time to get out of dodge and get him home. Ms. Leading follows me outside. I turn to her and say, “Looks like it’s time for me to go. Want to come with me to get my car?”

“Sure,” she says.

I tell my brother’s friends to get him to the front door while I go get the car. Ms. Leading walks lock-step with me to the car, which is about two blocks away from the bar. On our way, Ms. Leading and I say little, because we know what’s about to happen when we get to the car, and sure enough, before I can even turn the keys into the ignition, Ms. Leading leaps onto me, and starts tonguing me down. Ten minutes go by, windows fogged, but because my brother is inebriated to the point where he actually might get arrested, I pump the brakes.

“We have to stop,” I tell her as she’s biting my bottom lip. “But look, just come back to my place.”

“I can’t ” she says. “I’m here with my best friend and the rest of our girls celebrating a birthday.”

“So,” I say. “You’re not here with your mom, I’m sure they’ll let you go.”

“Yeah, but they talk, and I don’t want to hear it from them.”

Frustrated and annoyed, I stop Ms. Leading from unbuckling my belt. “I need to go get my brother,” I say. I pull out of my parking space and drive over to the front of the bar where my brother is standing on a wall outside, near the entrance, with his head down. Is he taking a piss in public? No. Okay, he’s letting the wall hold him up. Ms. Leading gives me her number, which I toss in the ashtray soon as she walks back inside, and I get out of the car to help my brother, who I throw in the back of my car.

About to pull off, when I hear Ms. Leading yell, “Wait!” I roll down my passenger side window and she leans in with a smile. “Hey,” she says. “I can’t find my friends, so is your offer still good?”

“Get in,” I say.

Ms. Leading gets into the seat and we’re off to my brother’s apartment. My brother passed out in the back, and Ms. Leading in the front, this time, free to unbuckle my belt for the short drive back to our destination.

When we pull up to the apartment, I need Ms. Leading’s help carrying my brother up to the apartment, which is on the third floor of a walk-up. Once inside, I throw my brother on his bed and go into the living room to set up the fold-out bed. With the bed set, I toss Ms. Leading one of the big rap t-shirts I got for free at my internship.

“This is for you,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “You wanna help me change?”

At this point, I know exactly what’s about to happen, so I turn out the light, close the door behind me, and climb right on top of Ms. Leading. Everything is going exactly as planned. The kissing is intense, the grinding is even more intense, and my goodness, her moans. I remember those like the last song I listened to on my iPod. They were loud, real loud, to the point where I was actually concerned my brother, passed out from numerous shots of 151, would actually wake up. Nowhere else we can go but all the way, so I pull out the condom I slid in the pocket of my basketball shorts.

“Wait,” she says. “I can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We can’t go there,” she says.

I go back to kissing her. On her neck. On her shoulders. On her breasts. The kisses  being planted on her body like if I applied just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot, I’d unlock her legs. I’m kissing. I’m hoping and now…I’m stopping.

“I’m a virgin,” she says.

Now, I’ve heard some reasons from women. Some good. Some not so good and this one was neither of those. This was either a bold-faced lie or the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Hey,” I say. “You know, nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen. We can stop right now, but don’t lie. Why would you say that?”

“No, really, I am,” she says. “I’ve never even done this much. But I really am.”

Now I’m disgusted.

“Okay, first, I don’t believe you.” I tell her. “Second, even if what you are saying is the truth why the hell would you come to the apartment with two guys you don’t even know if you weren’t planning on losing your virginity tonight?”

Ms. Leading looks at me like I just asked her what’s the meaning to life. “I don’t know,” she says shrugging shoulders.

“Well, I’m sorry, I still don’t believe you,” I say to her. “But like I said, that’s just dumb and I’m just going to go to sleep, you should too. It’s late.”

The next morning, I hear my brother in the kitchen and with Ms. Leading still asleep, I get out of bed and see him cooking up a storm. There’s sliced apples, cinnamon sticks, and a bowl of pancake batter. My brother, who has an uncanny ability to recover from drinking binges like Wolverine recovers from injuries, is making apple-cinnamon pancakes from scratch and wearing a toothy grin.

“Well, look who it is?” my brother says as he reached out his fist to give me some dap. I knock it away.

My brother stops mixing his batter and says, “No, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“Bro, get out of here. Nothing?”

“Nothing. She’s a virgin!” I whisper.

Just as I say this, the door is opening. My brother, with the reflexes of a cat throws the apples and cinammon sticks in the refrigerator and the bowl of pancake batter in the oven then runs back into his room. Ms. Leading comes out, changed into the same clothes she was wearing last night.

“You ready to go?” I ask.

Ms. Leading smiling, kisses me and says, “Yeah, let’s go.” On our way out the door, she asks me, “Is somebody cooking breakfast?”

“Not here,” I say. “Must be the neighbors.”

On the way to her place, she’s at it again, this time, grabbing at the elastic of my basketball shorts. “Stop,” I say.When we pull up to her complex, she kisses me again, on my cheek, and says, “Call me.”

Ms. Leading’s number never left the ashtray and I drove back home to eat my brother’s apple-cinnamon pancakes.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Today, I’ve decided to touch on a different topic, but if you would like to read yet another one of my takes on relationships, click on the piece I wrote for TheRoot.com. “Why Jay-Z Should Rap About Marriage”

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I didn’t need to be any closer than I already was to understand the magnitude of what took place on September 11, 2001.

I was actually on my way to my part time job at Pentagon City, the shopping mall neighboring the Pentagon, when I heard about the World Trade Center attacks and then, the plane flying into the Pentagon. Admittedly, the first thought I had was how my commute into work that morning would be affected, because I was in a rush to get to Sam Goody (where I worked) and buy a copy of Jay-Z’s The Blueprint on my employee discount.Then I turned the TV and that’s when I knew, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Being so close to one of the three places that were attacked on 9/11, I knew the tragedy of the day’s events would forever change me. I knew I would never forget seeing the smoke rising across the Potomac, never forget the calls of worry from friends and family all day, never forget the sound of my brother’s voice who lives in New York and was one of the citizen volunteers helping people to safety at the World Trade Center that day. For me, what happened on 9/11 was life changing. It was enough.

But three years later, the date of September 11 would take on new meaning.

I just moved to New York, two months prior, adjusting to life after college when on September 11, 2004, my Uncle Jeff was murdered in his hometown of Hayward, California. The end result of a fist fight my uncle won and his killer couldn’t stand to lose.

Five years after my uncle’s murder and eight years after America’s most horrible tragedy, I find myself overwhelmed with the magnitude of both events, and what it means to be an American, in these days and times.

We talk a lot  about the War on Terror and Homeland Security, about terrorists from overseas who want to do us harm. Ever since 2001, these things have understandably been a concern for many of us who live in this country.

But what gets lost in the sauce is the terrorism we reek on one another, the kind of terrorism my Uncle Jeff fell victim to five years ago when he was killed at point blank range by a man my age. In our pursuit of enemies abroad, we can’t lose sight of the enemies at home, which is not to say my uncle’s killer was against country. I trust that’s hardly the case. But when you’re so angry at another man that you can take his life with no remorse, your enemies are from within. You’re angry at not just someone but something. And like so many others who wander our streets, angry with the cards they’ve been dealt, my uncle’s killer reacted to that anger by taking a life that did not live an ocean apart, but probably blocks away.

Trust me, I want talk about homeland security, but can we talk about the whole thing, and how we need to not only be aware of the enemies who come from outside of our borders, but also those who want to do harm within them? Can we talk about the war on terror, but also include the terror we inflict on each other? Invade countries like Afghanistan, so we can feel safer over here, but understand that over here, things aren’t entirely safe.

This may be selfish of me to wax poetic on. After all, it’s been said that on 9/11, we’re all New Yorkers, Washingtonians, and passengers of United Flight 93, which crashed in Shanksville, PA. But on September 11, I am both a proud American and one who is ashamed by what I see going on in our streets everyday.

For me, the lessons I learned on September 11, 2001 and September 11, 2004 both boil down to one thing, which is this: We have to care about it all.

Here’s a little fact about me that may surprise some: I’ve never had a threesome.

I say this not to be funny. I’m serious. I have been having sex with one woman at a time for years now, yet, never with two at a time.

So what gives?

Well, for starters, people who have had two partners at the same time are a rare, rare breed. Don’t believe me? According to a sex survey ABC’s Primetime Live did five years ago, only 14 percent of the adults surveyed actually experienced a threesome*. That number has probably changed since its inception, but I highly doubt by much.

The way I see it, these numbers prove true a theory I have always had. The privilege of being with two women at the same time comes down to one of two things:

1) A lot of luck

2) A lot of money

Since I have too much pride to buy my way into being a member of Three Phi Some (the name of the fraternity  I have given to all who have had a threesome) I’m going to need luck to join, and thus far no such luck has flown my way, which is sort of not really okay with me.

Obviously the main reason I want to be with two women at the same time is because I get double the fun of what is already one of the most fun things to do in the world. But the other reason I want to be piloting a two-woman rush is because of the bragging rights that come with being a member of Three Phi Some.

For a man, there are two things he remembers. The first time he’s had sex with a woman and the first time he’s had sex with two women. Most men get to experience the first, but the second? They named a movie after those guys entitled, A Few Good Men.**

Whether a man becomes a member by accident or on purpose, pulling off a threesome is the bedroom Lotto – to win it is rare. Especially for a man like me who has too much pride to chase down two women who look like they might be the type to tag me in. I don’t even know what women who do such things look like. I just know from the guys who have been lucky enough to get into the frat, most of them have admitted it was a matter of dumb luck. So while am I patient for my turn to be pledged into Three Phi Some, I do sometimes feel like the last person picked in a game of street ball, especially when I meet women who are members.

“Have you ever had a threesome?” is one of those questions I never ask a woman, largely because if she hasn’t, she might not want one. After all, what kind of woman wants a threesome and actually hasn’t had one? The kind who either lacks effort or the kind who can’t seem to find a man and a woman who find her sexy enough to lay down with. That’s who.

Now,  if the woman says, Yes to the question, my next question usually is, “Well, do you want to do it again? With me?” Unfortunately, the answer is usually, No, followed by some excuse as to how it was a one-time-only type of deal. Then, my next question is, “Well, do you want to make it a two-time deal?” And they usually say no to this too.

What gives? That’s my third question, but I usually keep it in my head. After all, I don’t want to make the woman feel like all I care about is having a threesome, because it’s not (one day I will do a post about lying).

The truth is, I’m patient. Having a Threesome before I get hitched isn’t exactly on the top of my priority list. It’s just written in bold.

With asteriks around it.

And three lines underneath.

Like this:

***HAVE A THREESOME***
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*Click here to read the American Sex Survey by ABC News

**It should be noted, the actual movie, “A Few Good Men” isn’t really about men who have been in threesomes, just the title.