No Sex Please, We’re Confused
There are only two kinds of women in the world, I said once. Those who want to fuck me and those who don’t. With the usual cut-outs given for good friends, co-workers, and such, women in the latter group cease to exist in a way, becoming translucent, jellyfish-like in my mind’s eye. Like some sort of galactic anomaly that possesses mass yet indistinct form, they are at best tenuously connected to my dimension. This psychological mechanism has proven to be remarkably effective. Any feelings of residual anger, remorse or self-doubt I might have are soon replaced by overwhelming indifference. No hard feelings, as they say, and we move along our separate paths. After all, what kind of person would want to couple with a jellyfish?
This mechanism is not without its flaws, however. It requires a sort of forthrightness that some women find themselves unable to muster, and when I am led along by the nose rejection still carries a certain jellyfish sting. So it went with Cindy, the willowy Latina whom we had met before riding off together to the underwear party. Everything appeared to be going well. She and Leslie had met up again while I was on vacation and, verily, hit it off. Leslie made it clear that the two of us only wanted to play together and Cindy was fine with it. Cindy said she wanted to give it a try with me, which I probably should have recognized at the time as a less-than-ringing endorsement. Nonetheless she seemed sweet and sensitive, the kind of girl whom you’d ask to stick around for breakfast, and we set a play date for this evening. Les and I made some preparations for entertaining, even sending Cindy a playful questionnaire about her fantasies.
Yesterday evening Leslie came home with the news that Cindy had cancelled on us. The girl had been taking some self-improvement seminar, the final installment of which Leslie had sat through at Cindy’s request. I couldn’t make it that night but it was just as well. One of the fruits of her four-hundred-dollar investment was a newfound commitment to telling the truth. And so, crying over the phone, Cindy informed Leslie that in actuality she wasn’t attracted to me and simply couldn’t go through with the play date. Ironically, if we had met up with her a couple of weeks ago she would have gone along with everything, and, who knows, actually gotten to like me (it’s happened before). If only her little revelation had taken place in, say, July or September. It didn’t help to know that on the morning after the underwear party she had merrily cavorted with Anya and the boyfriend. But now, alas, she’s a better person. Too good for me, apparently.
I know. We’re damned good at threesomes, having received a slew of compliments in the past. (“You guys are rockin’ my world,” Katrina told us once.) I know it’s truly Cindy’s loss in almost every conceivable respect. I know she cannot hold even the smallest votive candle to the heavenly splendor that is Leslie. I know we’re on the list for Grego’s tonight. Yet yesterday evening these facts were little consolation to me.
So last night I was sort of navel-gazing and cursing myself at having been led into a trap. Nonetheless, I dragged myself out to meet up for drinks with Leslie and the nice couple, Jack and Jill, and I’m glad I did. They’ve been through it all, and it was therapeutic to commiserate with them over the capriciousness of young females. We’re taking things slowly with them, and our mutual attraction has been unambiguously established. Cindy began to fade, jellyfish-like, into the blackness of the cosmos. Soon we were all outside the bar talking politics and toking an oversized spliff with a Nigerian-born Brit and his merry, erratic friends. The jolly fellow couldn’t quite figure out what was happening between us swingers, but must have thought it indecorous to ask.
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