In the End


“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I just read on MSN about an Italian woman who just turned 101. Her daily diet includes two glasses of wine with lunch, a glass of Southern Comfort before dinner, and a can of Bud after dinner. This lovely specimen must have genetic ties to me because I plan on living to 101 and gathering quite a few souvenir corks along the way. Fermentation makes life more interesting. Sure, I could replace that evening beverage with an iced tea, but then there’s the caffeine-at-night thing. Plus, I’d lose the most convenient excuse for the silly things I say and do. I can’t very well defend licking a stranger’s neck by offering a plea of “high on tea.”

Place an alcoholic beverage in front of me, and nothing is boring. When I begin to drift or feel a yawn approaching, I simply bring glass to lip and sip. No story is too long, too often repeated, or too far-fetched. Wine makes it fine.

Then there’s sex. As long as the sex doesn’t include a sober, no-fun person, it’s better on the rocks. Kindly ignore the beer burps, and enjoy the ride.

“Hey, you know (hic) what? I wanna do it doggie-style.”

“So, you want me to do it with one leg up, or would you like me to chew your ear like hide?”

“Stop, silly. I mean the position. Get behind me.”

“Fuck, I’m dizzy.”

“If you throw up on my back, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Right. Hey, wait a minute. I think I need a pillow.”


“We aren’t aligning properly. I think I’ve spent the last five minutes fucking your knee-pit.”


“It’s not entirely awful, actually.”

“Here, I’ll guide you.”

“Ah, there we go. Hold on. We’re off rhythm.”


“I mean, I’m thrusting while you’re going forward. Since this is doggie, maybe I should leash you. Grrrowl!”

“You’re not leashing me. Here, grab my hips.”

“Oh, then there’s that way–the more conventional, sober, unmemorable way.”

“All right. How can we make it better, mister?”


“Ouch! Fucker!”

“You like that, don’t you, you naughty little girl.”

“No, that hurt.”

“Did not.”


“Hey! One more time, and I’ll pull your balls so hard you’ll be able to see out of your scrotum.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Let’s try another position. Get on top of me.”

“I’m dizzy again, and I think my Willy is caught. I’m stuffing sheets into your holy area.”

“Great. Lift up. All better. I’ll put this pillow under my butt to help you out.”

“Good idea. Hey, that’s my pillow.”


“OK, let’s do this.”


“Yes, darling.”

“What did the caddy say to the horrible golfer?”

“I give up.”

“Wrong hole!”

“Ha ha ha, that’s funny … oh, shit. Sorry.”

“That’s OK, but now you have to wash it off before it goes where it belongs.”

“Can you clean it for me?”


“Ugh. Now I have to wait until the water gets warm. Say, do we have any moist towelettes? Oh my god. I just had an idea for a great invention. Bedside sex wipes!”

“While you’re up, Mr. Newton, think you can discover my wine glass?”

“Just remember it’s my idea. No stealzies.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.