“We must travel in the direction of our fear.” – John Berryman
Why won’t men ask for directions? Because to do so strips us of a sliver of manhood each time. We boldly go forth, and confidently proclaim “we’ll get there.” This draws ire and confusion from ladies and children.
“Mom, why are we driving around the block?”
“Because your father is too stubborn to ask for directions.”
“But, don’t we have nav? On-Star? Cell phones?”
“Your father prefers to use his finely tuned Scooby Sense.”
Never is this male flaw more alarming than in the bedrooms of America.
“Chad spent five minutes licking my belly button before he realized he was a bit northerly.”
“That’s nothing. John once fucked the sheets, thinking he was inside me the whole time. You should have seen his brush burns.”
Directions and guidance come in most handily at that moment between foreplay and insertion. (I’ve poked quite a few taints in my day; I am thereby qualified to discuss this matter, people.) Time is of the essence when Pokey Joe is attempting entry. Significant delay can kill the moment by loss of turgidity or lubrication, both necessary to arrive at the intended destination.
- Man climbs on top, takes stab one. If successful, man is revered (in his own mind), repeating the phrase, “Look, no hands!” Skip following steps.
- Man thrusts. Penis pokes left upper thigh.
- Man thrusts. Penis pokes pelvic bone above intended target.
- Man thrusts. Penis nearly enters anus. Woman’s fist nearly meets man’s throat.
- Man thrusts. Penis overshoots the area and lands in the grassy pubis of woman with rapidly dwindling patience.
- Man thrusts. Penis pokes right upper thigh.
- Man’s arms falling asleep. Man kisses neck to catch a breather.
- Impatient, unimpressed, woman licks fingers, wipes healthy wad of spit on tip of man’s penis, places the tip in the vaginal entrance, hoping the klutz can find his way into a room when confronted by a wide-open door.
- Man thrusts. Bingo.
- Woman rolls eyes.
There’s no subsequent post-game discussion between the man and woman. (There’s plenty of discussion between the woman and her besties; however, the man strikes it from memory.) This is unfortunate. Relationships are all about communication.
One obvious solution would be to leave the lights on and have the clod watch what he’s doing. So much for the mood. Another would be to hand the keys to the lady and place her in charge of insertion when ready. That could work, but after a taxing day at the office, sometimes a girl just wants to lie back and be penetrated. I suppose I could invent a vagina funnel to make taint-poking less likely. It would resemble the cone dogs wear to keep them from biting at wounds. Unsexy. My bad.
Perhaps the most logical solution is to begin each coupling with the woman on top. She can reach down or around and guide things while he concentrates on squeezing boobs. Man on top is too much like Battleship. I wonder if Siri could be of assistance.
“A little more to the left, Romeo.”