It’s odd how far apart the genders are when it comes to what gets us in the mood. Occasionally those roads intersect (like on Tequila Drive), but most of the time what gets one going gets the other scratching a scalp.
Take, for instance, porn. Now, the women who speak to me of this may indeed be lying, but what I usually hear is disgust around how unrealistic most scenes are. Men rarely meet porn they don’t like, as long as a brother’s nasty bunghole is obscured. We certainly have preferences. There’s always a certain position in the clip that we consider to be our money-shot. (For those unaware, the money-shot is that brief moment of ecstasy before we need a towel and a nap.) The money-shot for me is the seated position with woman on top facing away from the camera. As the imaginary director, I prefer the scene to be clear of ugly tattoos, hemorrhoids, and ball scars.
Women sometimes find porn useful as long as it contains romance and intrigue instead of a woman giving a horrible operatic performance while an ape tries to pound her hips through the bed frame. Men care not of plot.
Gifts can put a person in the mood. This can include flowers, chocolates, jewelry, clothing, or a bullet vibrator. Heck, I once was treated to good loving for performing a simple household chore (emptying the dishwasher). A man never really knows when his deed will create a spark or spray of asbestos. Worse, there’s no consistency. I emptied that fucker four subsequent times without being granted similar treats.
For men, gifts aren’t necessary to get us in the mood. I appreciate a nice bottle, Padres tickets, and a soft T-shirt, but those items are insignificant to my little friend, Willy. However, seeing you emerge from the bedroom in one of my shirts barely covering your biscuit certainly does the trick for both Willy and me. If you happen to be carrying two wine glasses, a fine bottle of red and have glittery cleavage, I doubt we’ll make it past the first five ounces.
Since I write books, I wonder if a reader ever slyly undoes her top Joe’s Jeans button, slides her free hand southerly, and brings herself physically in the direction my words point. I’d be flattered. Heck, I’m blushing as I write about it. I’d have to admit I’m suddenly in the mood. Be right back …