Old Boyfriend

Three nights ago I was in bed with a woman, I know surprise, surprise. In this midst of our kissing and clothes removal she asked if I wanted to have sex in a very seductive, Demi Moore voice. Stop trying to be sexy and let's just have sex.

Dumb girl, of course I want to have sex, and asking me if I want to have sex does not increase my desire. In fact it annoys me and hinders the erection of my penis.

So we had sex. It was great and then I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning and she was in the shower, so to pass the time I snooped around her room, superficially, but snooping nonetheless. I looked at all her pictures and photo collages. I noticed that one ugly Quasimodo look alike appeared and inordinate amount of times.

As she walked out of this bathroom I had to ask who the special Olympian was.

My ex-boyfriend.

What?

Yeah, we dated for a couple of years, high school sweethearts.

Oh God, I’m going to be sick. I did not wear a condom. My penis had ventured into areas he used to occupy. I had slept with a person who slept with a man with Cro-Magnon features.

This did not sit well with me. I rushed out of her apartment and soaked my penis in a tub of peroxide. How could a woman find me attractive enough to sleep with and also find “that guy” attractive enough to sleep with. Oh no, what if I had grossly overestimated my looks, my sex appeal. What if I was in the same class as “that guy?”

Depression had definitely set in for a couple of hours. To alleviate my newfound malady I decided to take a look at some of my ex-sex buddies, some of my conquests. I was very proud of the women I had mounted so my spirits were lifted, as was my penis, but nevermind that.

I would definitely rather date or fuck a woman that sleeps with Brad Pitt look look-a-likes than with Corky look-a-likes.