Текст книги "Daddy, Stop Talking! And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting"

Автор книги: Adam Carolla

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

CHAPTER 9
To Sonny, on Puberty

Dear Sonny,

As my work schedule will have likely killed me by the time you sprout your first pube, I’m not going to be around to have a man-to-man with you about becoming a man. This carries on a rich Carolla tradition of never having “the talk.” It wasn’t that my parents were uncomfortable about sex, it was that having “the talk” required talking.

A quick note to your sister: I’m very sorry, Natalia, you’re just going to have to skip a few pages. I don’t have any puberty advice for you. Talk to your mom about becoming a woman. I find periods confusing. I could never track when my girlfriends or wife had their period. They always seemed irritable. Maybe that just means I’m an asshole. But periods shouldn’t even be called that, because they never seem to end. To me, periods seem like painting the Golden Gate Bridge. As soon as you’re done, it’s time to start over again.

I do have empathy for you. If I had a period once in my life I’d kill myself, never mind every month. I’d be the cuntiest of cunts if I had a period. I’m already constantly angry. If I had something coming out of me that I had to sop up with cotton, they’d have to lock me up like the Hulk or put me in chains like King Kong.

It’s also a damn good thing that my friends and I don’t have periods. Given the tea-bagging and other hazing that guys do to each other when they’re adolescents, the potential for disgusting disaster would have been way up had periods been involved. There’s no way that if my friend Ray had a bleeding vagina once a month, he wouldn’t have put it on my face when I was sleeping.

Anyway, back to you, Sonny. You’re going to have some hormonal shifts, too, just like your sister. Women will never appreciate the power of testosterone. When a boy hits puberty it’s like Jesse Pinkman set up a meth lab in your nut sack. You’ll have the uncontrollable urge to fight and fuck. You’ll make stupid decisions without thinking. And you’ll be angry. It’s weird. There’s a thing in life where up until your early twenties you’re angry, then you mellow out a little bit, but then when you turn fifty-three you get angry again. On both ends of the spectrum, you don’t give a shit and your anger makes you lash out. I call it the Alec Baldwin syndrome.

And of course this testosterone geyser is going to mean unintended and uncontrollable boners. Sorry, kid, this is just a storm you have to ride out. There’s only a brief window in life where you have control over your junk. As a teen, you have zero control. You can be watching Schindler’s List and get one. But when you’re my age, chances are you’ll be yelling at it to stand at attention. There’s a sweet spot in your late twenties and early thirties when you no longer have to grab and tuck the surprise boner into your waistband to get rid of it because they don’t happen so often. But right now, if you’re reading this anywhere between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five, be prepared that a stiff breeze can give you a stiff dick.

Your entire body is going to go through some changes and with those body changes, come body issues. You’re going to feel gangly and awkward. We have a national obsession with female body image. There’s all those Dove soap love-your-body-type ads. And as a dad, even I have to admit it is fucked up what our culture foists on girls. I don’t know if it’s okay to masturbate to your kids’ cartoons, but Disney princesses have no waists and giant boobs. The chick from Aladdin is crazy hot. What percentage of young girls watching those movies are gonna look like that? You would literally need your hips shaved off.

I feel bad for the girls, but what about the fellas? The Disney princes all have cleft chins, no waists and giant arms. There is no way that teenage boys can have that body without going on the juice. Every action figure is cut and has a hairless chest. If a girl aspires to look like a Disney princess or a Barbie doll all she needs to do is not eat. But boys need to get on HGH.

Women are always supposedly redefining beauty. They’ll put Lena Dunham on the cover of a magazine and say she’s brave and that she’s redefining beauty. Well, for your sake, Sonny, in this book I’m redefining male beauty. Now men with a double chin and a hairy ass are beautiful. I have decreed it.

Speaking of hairy, with puberty comes hair in new and interesting places. So let’s start at the head and work our way down, shall we?

Facial hair is a pain in the ass and I suggest you avoid it. If you got my genes you’re not going to be able to grow a decent beard anyway. I have the beard of a black man: short, curly and itchy. I get ingrown hairs and the beard is always patchy.

Maintaining a beard is just a time suck unless you’re a total dick like guys from the Jersey Shore who have to wake up at four in the morning to work their perfect sideburns. When you spend that much time working on your facial hair, you’re just a narcissist who likes to spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror.

At least go all or nothing. Either grow a full beard so you don’t have to be bothered or shave every day or two and go clean. I’ve never understood the mustache. If you’re going to spend the time scraping a blade across your face, just finish the job. And it’s more than just the time. Dig this mustache thought.

Every other patch of hair on your body stinks: your armpits, your balls and your ass if you’re me. Yet we cultivate the one right under our nostrils. Why would you want a stink sponge right under your nose? That would be like sewing your balls to your upper lip.

Please don’t be that skinny young hipster guy with a beard. Beards are for guys that swing axes or play fiddles. Dan Hagerty or Charlie Daniels should have beards, not guys who punch up Adam Sandler scripts. A beard used to be something you earned. You were a lumberjack, a biker or a Civil War general. You haven’t earned a beard at twenty-three.

We’re currently in a facial hair free-for-all. We’ve gone through different phases throughout history, but now it’s game on. It used to be that you had the same mustache or beard everyone else had. Now it’s weird neck beards, or the Sharpie pinstripe, or the young guy with mountain-man beard right next to the guy with the waxed handlebar mustache. In the Mad Men era everyone was clean shaven and if they did want a mustache, they had one choice. Like all things for you kids nowadays, there’s too much variety.

Just as the facial hair guy who loves to look in the mirror, the guy who has a very demanding and meticulous haircut is a narcissist, too. I was getting my hair cut recently, and the guy who was in the chair next to me when I sat down was still there giving instructions long after I was gone. I have no idea how long he was there before I sat down, but I paid the parking meter for thirty minutes and it had seventeen left when I got back behind the wheel. Meanwhile, this dude was still in the chair. He was a Russian guy getting some complicated two-stage fade haircut. Why? Because that’s his one moment. His wife doesn’t listen to him, his daughter hates his guts, his boss is up his ass and he has a job where he uses that tape-gun sealing boxes somewhere. This was his time to shine. This was his “me time.” He’s not in a barber’s chair, he’s on a throne and his lordship will have it his way. He’s exerting his dominion over another person. It’s wielding power. But how satisfying can that actually be?

Let’s talk for a minute about the back of your hair. When you find a good barber shop (not a penny over twenty dollars, son), and it comes time for them to do the back of your neck they’ll ask if you want it square or round. Just do what your old man does and say, “How did you do it last time? What is it now? Whatever it is, just do that.” This whole conversation is a waste of time. Has anyone ever been passed over for a promotion, not gotten laid or gotten out of a moving violation because of what the back of their head looks like? I don’t know what the back of my hair looks like as I write this book. I’m an adult, I’m married, and I know whatever shape it is in will just grow out anyway. So I don’t give a fuck. My plan is, and yours should be, to spend as little time in that seat as possible. Every ten seconds extra I spend in the Model Cuts getting my thirteen-dollar haircut is ten seconds I could be making money and living my life. My hair is like the Terminator, it’ll be back.

If you can get the straight razor shave at an upscale place like the Art of Shaving, go for it once in a while. It feels good. That hot lather, straight razor shave is nice, and makes you feel like Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josie Wales or an old-time gangster. You get out of there and want to hit a saloon and a whorehouse. That said, I can’t sleep at night because the short leather strap used to sharpen the razor is called a strop. It looks like a strap and is shaped like a strap but for some reason is called a strop. This really bothers me for reasons that I cannot explain.

You’re going to start getting hair on your chest, too. Just let it be. It’s not even because the hair is difficult to tend to, it’s that the chicks who are attracted to the guys with shaved chests are the chicks who are attracted to all guys with shaved chests and therefore you’re getting someone who’s not going to stick around. A girl who is attracted to the narcissist who spends that much time manscaping is the kind of girl who you’re going to catch banging your fellow bare-chested buddy.

And like me, you’ll probably have some hair on your ass. The area where I could have a tramp stamp looks like the Amazon rainforest. I was once paid twenty bucks by your crazy Uncle Ray to shave my ass. I want to make that clear, he paid me. He was so disgusted at the briar patch on and around my ass that he coughed up what was probably a half day’s pay at the time to see the bramble above my butthole go away.

Ray also paid our friend Dave one hundred dollars to let us shave him. Dave was a hairy motherfucker. He was somewhere between Vic Tayback and Chewbacca. So you can see why Ray would be tempted to see him bald as a baby mouse. He actually threw a Shave Dave party. I was there. Dave stood in Ray’s apartment complex driveway, Ray hit him with the hose, then we all sprayed him with shaving cream and took turns with the Bic. It was so much fun that Ray actually started roping people from his apartment building into it. There were a couple of older Asian ladies living below him who had just come back from the market. They were literally carrying grocery bags but Ray managed to charm, or bully, them into taking a turn clearing the brush from Dave’s back.

Now, when it comes to pubes, a nice trim is okay. But you don’t want to be shaved balls guy. Blades have no business that close to your business. But don’t let it overgrow either. You ever see a mailbox with the lawn overgrown around it? It makes the four-by-four post it’s sitting on look much shorter. So you get out there with the Weed Whacker and make that post look like the Washington Monument.

The good news is no one wants to see your nuts, anyway. No woman has ever said, “He had such a sexy ball sack.” Scrotum is ugly on every man. Brad Pitt’s scrotum looks the same as Dick Cheney’s. You could set up an experiment where very different famous people put their balls through holes in a piece of plywood and no one would be able to tell whose was whose. This could be a fun reality show, Celebrity Ball Sack Challenge. I don’t think anyone could correctly match the celebrity… unless we threw Lance Armstrong in the mix.

Balls are a pain in the balls. They should retract like landing gear. The sack is just this thing that can get in the way and be injured. Plus, it has more funk per square inch than a decomposing horseshoe crab.

Since I’m on your balls – sorry if that sounded weird – here’s a tip. I’ve found that a light dusting of talc down the boxer briefs will absorb any moisture and smell and give you multiple wearings. Save yourself some electricity and water. That’s the kind of environmental tip you won’t get from Al Gore. Because he free-balls it.

And on that note, let me suggest you go with boxer briefs. I have come to this conclusion after experiments with both boxers and briefs, and they truly are the best genitalia container.

I never understood boxers. They’re cool if you’re going down to the lake to swim with the chicks, but not if you’re at home alone and your dick is hanging out of the fly. That opening is like a compressed pita or one of those 1960s vagina-looking plastic change purses that you squeeze to open. My ding-a-ling would always pop out of those. So I’d have to do that two finger move where you grab the fabric and do a little butt dip to pop the dick back in. And briefs just ride up on you. I’ve never been a fan of the tighty-whitey.

But, recently, when I was looking at the pack of boxer briefs I noticed something. I had to bust out the jewelers’ loupe to figure out the size. The lettering on the box that tells you the size was literally less than an eighth of an inch. I started thinking about it. They use the same Marky Mark – esque model on the cover of all the underwear packages no matter what size. Size 28 to 32 or 48 to 52 has the same chiseled guy with the six-pack abs on the cover. What gives?

My line of men’s underpants will have a package where the model looks like he wears the underwear contained in the box. On the size 44 to 52, there will be a guy who looks like Michael Moore holding a can of Stroh’s. This would make it a hell of a lot easier to pick out your size. Instead of squinting, you would just say, “Yep, that’s what my fat ass looks like in the mirror.” It’d be a job creator, too. That way it won’t be the same hairless gay guy for every box. We could kick some of the plus-size long-haul truckers and toll-booth operators some extra work.

A nice bonus would be that my underwear line would motivate people to exercise. If you see a guy looking like John Goodman on the box of underwear you’re about to purchase, you may decide not to hit the Cinnabon on the way out of the mall and go home and do some crunches instead. It’ll be a realistic brand for your belly and butt, I’ll call it Gut ’N’ Stinc. (Say it fast, and you’ll get the joke.)

Feels Like the First Time

Like all young men, you’re going to be fully obsessed with losing your virginity. Don’t. It’s going to be awkward, and it’s going to end quickly, so just get it out of the way. But not too soon.

Men are to virginity what women are to pregnancy. It’s biologically driven to be incredibly important to us and there’s a window that, if you miss it, it’ll fuck you up. In either direction. If you get laid too early and too often it becomes a distraction, it feels too good and it becomes your occupation. I had friends who had the ability to play college football, on scholarship. Instead, they just spent their senior years essentially dropped out of school, because they were getting laid and that was a hell of a lot more fun than going to class or practice. But if you wait too long to do the deed, you’ll feel like a loser, it will destroy your self-esteem and you’ll be chasing it for the rest of your life.

That’s why in my will I have set aside a trust for you to spend on a whore if you’re still a virgin on your eighteenth birthday.

But be safe. I don’t think I need to give another lecture on unwanted kids. So get some condoms. And don’t feel awkward about it when you buy them. There’s no stigma to that anymore.

When he was a young man, Dr. Drew had a father who was a well-known doctor in his town. Therefore, he knew all the pharmacists. So poor little Drew had to drive to Chinatown to get his condoms without his old man finding out from his underground pharmacist network. Like a junkie, he had to head to the dicey part of town under the cloak of darkness to get his latex fix.

And don’t get all up in your head about condom size. The Magnum condom makers know what they’re doing. It was brilliant marketing, like the guys who named the Smart Car. “Hey what do you drive?” “I drive a Smart Car.” Assholes. The name Magnum is just designed to get guys to buy them. I would like to do a social experiment. I’ll open a fake convenience store and put a super-hot blonde chick behind the counter, and watch what happens when guys go in to buy condoms. It will be great to see how many of them buy the Magnums with Kate Upton behind the counter, versus the usual Indian guy.

Lamb-skin condoms must send a mixed message to guys who like to fuck sheep. And I wonder what the answer would be if you were to talk to a sheep about whether they would rather become a car-seat cover or a condom? If the sheep answers “condom,” I think we can assume that sheep is gay. Sure you’re sliding into a lady part, but you’re going to have some guy coming inside you.

And remember, please, that condoms expire. I think condoms should have a smell like milk, so you can tell when they’re no good anymore. Most people are busting out condoms in dimly lit apartments when they’re drunk and horny. They’ll never know if the thing is expired or broken. But if it stank when you tore open the package you’d know it was time to go visit the Kwik-E-Mart again.

I’d like to introduce a line of condoms that feature the image of a birthmark. That way when you cheat on your wife and your mistress identifies you by the very telling birthmark, you can say to your wife, “She’s clearly lying, I don’t have a birthmark in the shape of Italy on my dick.”

Now, I know the condom slows you down a little bit, so be cautious about sex going too long. When you’re a teenager, especially after watching a lot of porn, you think that you need to bang away for hours at a time. But after years of listening to Dr. Drew talk to women about their sexual pain, it is pretty clear that they’re not as interested in that as you’d think. The whole “he went all night” thing is a myth. Once you’re in there count it in dog years. Each minute is seven minutes. Here’s a go-to: If you’re reaching for the lube and she’s reaching for an ice pack, that’s a bad sign.

And don’t think that you need to get too kinky, either. I know we’ve all gone Fifty Shades of Grey and that there needs to be novelty in the bedroom once in a while, but sex ain’t broken. I see a lot of movies, not porno, but regular movies, where food is incorporated into sex. That whole Kim Basinger, Mickey Rourke 9½ Weeks thing. If you’re staring at a twenty-seven-year-old naked Kim Basinger and thinking, “Ehh… I’m gonna need some Cool Whip in order to get wood here. I could just take her into the bedroom and have my way with her or I could lay her down on linoleum and cover her in Tabasco and jimmies” that’s a problem. I like food and sex, but I don’t need to combine them. I like football and sex, I like my dog and sex, I like Coen Brothers’ movies and sex, but I try not to combine any of these things. Sex is the one thing that doesn’t need Cool Whip. I don’t need ambrosia salad on my junk. Going to the DMV needs Cool Whip. Not a twenty-seven-year-old nude Kim Basinger.

A Beat About Beating Off

I’ll close out this letter with some thoughts on a very important part of life as a man: masturbation. The Jews say you become a man at thirteen. Well, I believe you’re a man the first time you find some porn and have at yourself. It’s something I call the bate-mitzvah.

I consider myself an expert on this topic. My best days are behind me, but I have so much to teach. Without a guiding hand, literally, you could get the hallowed act all wrong. So let me drop some wisdom about masturbation or, as I call it, jizzdom.

I was a late bloomer. Most boys discover themselves at thirteen. I didn’t start beating my meat until I was sixteen. I was at a friend’s house. I won’t mention him by name to limit the object of humiliation of this story to just me. He asked me if I had ever done that and I ashamedly admitted I hadn’t. Like the great mentors of history – John the Baptist to Jesus, Merlin to King Arthur or Mickey to Rocky – he opened me up to a whole new world. He pointed to his electric toothbrush and said, “See that? Fire it up and put it on the back of your weenus.” I said, “Huh?” He said, “It feels great. Just go sit on the toilet and do it.” (To clarify, it wasn’t the brush end. And he had a spare attachment. This wasn’t his actual toothbrush.) I did. And thus was simultaneously born my love of masturbation and my hatred of brushing my teeth.

After that first time, I thought, “I’m only good for one or two of these a month.” It was a process. Like crème brûlée, it was a once in a while treat. But very quickly, I figured out how to do this efficiently and, dare I say, artfully.

But before I get into the rules of the sacred rite – I call them Spunk Shui – let me express my wild envy of how plentiful porn is today. When I was a teen, there was none. I used to just lay in a field and wait for a cloud to take the shape of a boob. Now there’s so much Internet porn guys are spending the majority of the day in their refractory period. The question isn’t “Did you beat off today?” it’s “How many times did you beat off today?” I think all the porn access nowadays is going to make you lose your hunger for the hunt. Your generation isn’t even going to bother to date because you can go beg the old lady for a hummer, or you could instead just look at thousands of videos of other chicks giving guys hummers. You’ll lose the eye of the tiger. This cannot be. Not for my son.

I was sickened the other day when I was perusing some porn with some busty nineteen-year-old, not a blemish on her, doing unspeakable acts with two dudes (and in high def and free). I looked down at the bottom of said video and there were 623 likes and 128 dislikes. Dislikes? How can you dislike that? I want to find the guys who took the time and had the temerity to click “dislike” on the nineteen-year-old Swedish D cup being cornholed. Who are these animals that think, “I don’t know, I’m giving this a thumbs down.” What, there wasn’t enough semen? They didn’t get a bowling pin into the mix? When did this become not enough? I want to find these guys and just slap the crap out of them, film it and put it on the Internet and see how many likes it gets.

By the way, in that same session an ad popped up that said, “Tired of masturbating?” I thought, “Nope. Try me again in about one-hundred-fifty years.” It was one of those “Hook up with sluts in your neighborhood” ads. I say hit me with that ad when I’m in my refractory period and responding to a bunch of work e-mails. That’s when you might get me to try to connect with horny singles in my area. But you caught me at the wrong time. I will have no interest in sex in 10, 9, 8, 7… ahhh.

You kids don’t know how easy you have it. Because there was no Internet in my day, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue used to be jackable.

I know guys who used to beat off to the Adam and Eve or the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue. Not even porn, but a lingerie catalogue! My lowest point was when I went to a sporting-goods store and fell in love with the model on the raft box. This was a busty chick floating in a pool, holding a lemonade. To me, at age thirteen, not only was she hot, she was a celebrity. I assumed she must have lived in an inflatable mansion somewhere. It would actually make a great documentary to track that chick down. I could probably pull this off now. I have a successful career, she’s in her fifties, and it might be fun. But I digress. The point is there is no way the young ’uns of today are fantasizing about raft-box models.

Here is my “I walked three miles in the snow” story to you, Sonny. I watched my first porn at age sixteen. Ray’s brother had an 8mm stag film. We had to set up a projector and a screen. If you wanted to beat off back then, your parents couldn’t just go out grocery shopping, they had to go to Whole Foods… in Spain. They had to go on a cruise for you to have enough time to rub one out.

Ray brought the stag film, literally a black-and-white film, and a projector over to my grandparents’, who were in Europe, to set it up. They literally had to be on another continent for us to have enough time to arrange a porn-viewing session. But we couldn’t find a white wall to project it on. The best we could find was a white chest of drawers in my grandmother’s room, so we showed the movie on that. At one point, I pulled out the middle drawer and said, “Look, 3-D.” When the party wrapped up, the film got left behind in my possession, but not the projector. So the next day, I was literally holding the film up to the light and squinting. No jewelers’ loupe, just looking at eight millimeters of porn. That’s less than a third of an inch, approximately the width of a pencil. Sadly, John Holmes’s cock was still bigger than mine.

Yes, watching porn used to be a communal experience. It was so rare that we used to get together, have a party and watch porn. If you had roommates and you were the only guy in the apartment with a DVD player, or, in my day, a VHS player, you had to make sure to hook it up in the living room. Otherwise, your room would become the designated jack zone. It was a philanthropic gesture that not only was good karma, it also kept your roommates’ chi off your comforter.

You had to treat your porn like a commodity back in my day. It would get traded and passed around. You would show up at a buddy’s house with a shopping bag full of porn magazines and trade them like baseball cards. The aforementioned Dave of the Shave Dave party worked at a convenience store, so he would often pilfer porn (among other things). I’d go to his place and turn it into the floor of the New York Cock Exchange. There’d be heated negotiations. “One Gent for two Milkin’ and Poppin’s? Are you nuts?” At one point, it got so tense that Dave’s roommate, who worked the third shift, came out and shouted, “Can you keep it down!”

And you’d have to hide your collection. It was a nice treat when you’d put it away for a while and forget about it, only to rediscover it a few months later. That’s a pleasure you’ll never know. One night, back when porno used to be on VHS tape, after a couple glasses of red wine, I stumbled across my stash and saw one that was named Head Cleaner. I got excited until I realized it was an actual head cleaner for a VCR. I still beat off.

And you’ll never know the awkwardness of visiting the porn section of the ma-and-pa video store. Now everything streams wirelessly onto all of your devices simultaneously. When I was a teen, there were little local video stores that had the porn section shoehorned into the corner. The entire place was nine hundred square feet, so they took a four-by-four corner and hung Western doors, beads or a shower curtain in the opening. It was like the world’s worst – or best – voting booth. If there was anyone else in the store, you’d have to pretend to read the back of the box for The Treasure of the Sierra Madre while you waited for them to walk out with their rental before you ducked into the porn section.

One time, I was in that section and an Asian guy came in. It was uncomfortable, because I didn’t want to offend him by looking at the Asian section. So I meandered over to the blacks and lesbians. Who knows, I could have been looking at his sister on the box of Charlie Chan in Her Can.

And God forbid you had to call in advance to find out if they had the title you wanted. I interviewed the great Ron Jeremy on Loveline when he was promoting a movie called Spank Me, Fuck Me (featuring number-one Asian big-boob queen, Minka). Given that cast, I had to see it. So the following day I called my local video store. It’s the first and last time I ever did that. I used to just wander in and pretend that I’ve never even heard of porn. “Hmm, what’s in this section behind the beaded curtain? Pornography? Okay, I’ll try anything once.”

So I called and uncomfortably asked for Spank Me, F’ Me. I didn’t even want to say the full fuck. The guy didn’t know what I was talking about. So I had to ask again, I got really formal. “Spank Me, F’ Me… It’s an adult feature.” As if that was going to make it better. The guy said “What?” again. After one more round of this I finally said, “Spank Me, Fuck Me,” and the guy hung up. He must have thought I was making a prank call. But I’d say this, Vivid, you lost yourself a sale with your stupid title.

As weird as it is to think about, porn used to be a marker for where we were in our cultural evolution. Looking at porn titles now shows that we’ve lost all sense of nuance and subtlety in our society. I was skipping through Pay-per-View and looking at the porn titles recently, and it was all MILFs Who Crave Black Cranks and 18 Year Old Anal Loving Asians. Huh, wonder what those are about? I’m intrigued.

What happened to porn titles where you used to have to use your imagination like Emmanuel or Behind the Green Door? You knew it was porn, but you didn’t know what type. But you and your penis were going to find out.

It’s not just porn titles. It’s everything. We used to have sandwiches called the Reuben and the Monte Cristo. They used to name sandwiches after celebrities. Now the burgers are “The Double Angus Mushroom Cheddar Bacon Bar-B-Q Thing Between Two Buns That You Put In Your Mouth Sandwich.” Everything has to be completely described and on the nose because everyone is a checked-out idiot.

Eventually every porn title is gonna end with “. . . that you masturbate to.” In the future, we can look forward to seeing Barely Legal Lesbians Use a Double-Ended Dildo (and Then You Masturbate to It).

Now, let’s have a talk about the mess that comes with beating off. I was asked once during a live podcast if I could possibly complain about orgasms. And guess what? I can! If guys were like chicks and could have multiple mess-free orgasms the world would be our oyster. Imagine the VIP room at the strip club if nothing came out of your dick at the end of a spirited lap dance. Actually, we’d probably never leave those strip clubs and society would crash to a halt, but still. Women don’t realize how important orgasms are for us. They can’t appreciate it. For women, orgasms are like solar energy, they’re a renewable resource. For men, they’re fossil fuel – there’s only so much we can put out. Orgasms are awesome, but a moment later it’s like someone hocked a loogie on your belly. You can get hummus out of shag carpet faster than you can get jizz out of thigh hair.