Shifting Priorities

I’ve been noticing lately that my priorities have shifted dramatically. I mean, sex is certainly going to remain in the top 10 as long as I can draw breath. Can’t turn that off. Why would I? But, other things once thought insignificant have climbed the list.

Is this typical for all men? How about women? They love romance, shopping, and a buttery chardonnay. Does that change once they hit 40? 55? 70? When do foot rubs break the top 10? Mid-20s? Heck, if I had the answers, it would serve my love pursuit quite well. I fall back on old reliable, “Can I buy you a glass of wine?”

Once we hit around 13 or so, men are overcome with finding a warm, moist* place to host our little pet. 

*Note: Yikes. Yes, I know women hate that word. Let me check synonyms. How about damp? Fuck. No bueno, either. Um. Dewy? Hmm. Let’s try it in a sentence: “Sweetie, is your princess dewy enough for visitors?” I said it aloud just now in a British accent. There is no woman in my house. My cat, Symon looked and blinked. No reaction from that fucker until he hears the can opener. I apologize for the digression.

So, yes, once we’re teenage boys, it’s all about finding someone to touch the ding dong. Sad. All else falls by the wayside. Sure, school, sports, and games are all important, but easily ignored when there is the prospect of seeing a boob. We are such beasts.

Once out of school and in the workplace, we begin searching for a more-regular dose of sexy time. We figure that all of the first-month sex with Miss Steady will only increase once we bend a knee. We ignore the elders who warn us about how misguided that thought is. We go all in. Every night we lie with our ladies, comes with the possibility of sexy time … until it doesn’t.

Being single in the second half of life has taught men to override that urge to accept any receptive host. This is in part because our instinct to continue pursuing young, fertile women is hard to deny. We become creepy old guys looking for ladies with daddy issues. Worse, the ladies know it. Sure, once in a while one of these women will toss a sympathy romp our way, but that’s rare. Much better it is to raise a glass to her loveliness and be content with a bourbon high.

Nowadays, chasing tail (welcome to the 60s, Philsy) has dropped in priority behind paying bills, drinking wine, eating steak, and getting a full night’s sleep. Look, I’m not joining some freaky celibacy group. I still want to get laid, dammit but, fuck, I have flannel sheets on a Tempurpedic. Be serious.

Do mature women go through this? I remember Mom swearing off men after she finally kicked Pop to the curb. She couldn’t be bothered with dating. She enjoyed grandchildren, pets, and the occasion Sambuca or box wine. No man necessary.

Is this typical? Do you ladies load up your Netflix queues, wine cabinets, and yoga pants drawers instead of dealing with courtship? No man could bring you to orgasm quicker than you. Save time. Man be gone.

This does not bode well for me. Alas, I’m tired. Nap time.

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

towelette(quote by 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.”

“Why?”

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

“Jesus.”

“It’s not entirely awful, actually.”

“Here, I’ll guide you.”

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

“What?”

“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?”

*Smack!*

“Ouch! Fucker!”

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

“No, that hurt.”

“Did not.”

*Smack!*

“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.”

“So?”

“OK, let’s do this.”

“Honey?”

“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.”