This is the time of year that you usually find heart-warming stories of generosity and love. From Dickens “T’was The Night Before Christmas” to O’Henry’s “Gift of the Magi,” sentimental tears are shed. This year, love and goodwill aren’t on many minds. Between a global pandemic and a crazy person in the White House, it’s nearly impossible for even died-in-the-wool optimists to crank up “It’s a Wonderful Life” and shed a tear when a bell rings and another angel gets his wings.
I admit that I’m an optimist, a glass-half-full guy. Even I find it hard to understand how to get through until the end of January. I’ve never counted the days until the presidential inauguration before, but I am now. No matter where I turn, I see the destruction caused by the combination of a lunatic and a virus. It’s a horserace which of the two has done more damage.
In the face of all this, I’m expected to write about sex. Well, maybe that’s going too far. I expect to write about it. As of yesterday, It’s been 23 days since my last orgasm. That’s a new record for us. Only one other time did I wait longer. That was due to surgery and the wait was 28 days. It’s not like I’m in a frenzy begging Mrs. Lion to end my misery. I’m not all that concerned. I can’t explain it, but I’m not.
Mrs. Lion has been trying to help change that. I’m not cooperating. I have posited that my work on my book has used up my sexual energy. That makes zero sense. If anything, it should be revving my engine. I’m sure that in due course Mrs. Lion will get me as frustrated as she likes. If she follows through with her threats of anal penetration and relocking in a chastity device, she will probably jump-start my libido. If not, it’s OK, I’ll just read The New York Times and cry.