Well sort of.
They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince. It’s a lot more if you’re sleeping with them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m neither looking for a partner, nor am I sharing my bed with half of Greater Vancouver, but I will say, it appears as if men (and some women) consider sex a competitive sport. I think of myself as a team player. My girlfriends and I took the sport very seriously during the World Fire and Police Games of 2009. Although a medal holder myself, I still envy KeeKee for her victory in breaking the language barrier.
No matter how I feel about my relationship status, the hormones released at the point of orgasm in the female body, and the effect they have on the brain, are more of a mind-fuck than the men I choose to conquer. When we cum, Oxytocin, or the “cuddle drug”, is released, painting pictures of houses with verandas, white picket fences, dinners for two and plans for three. We completely let our guard down, lose our senses and believe that the guy who’s name we thought was “Brian” is our one and only, our soul mate.
Faking it has become a useful defense mechanism. Not only is it fantastic for putting an end to bad sex (see The Fake Factor), but it also prevents me from falling into that heart-shaped abyss of deceit, false hopes and one-sided love.
Unfortunately, when the sex is so good and I’m telling David not to stop when I say when, I open the door to the possibility of ambiguity, skullduggery and a broken heart.
I’m not the only one this happens to. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of women falling for men who are simply exercising their right to see what options are out there.
According to Dr. Phil, we can extrapolate the probability of a man’s cheat factor by the length of his ring finger, the symmetry of his face, the size of his penis or by how many times he’s been hit in the head. As tempting as it may be to stare into Brad Pitt’s perfect face, he’s staring into three other women’s after yours. You’re better off fucking a rugby playing Picasso with small hands and a short dick.
Update: After six months, my indiscretion from Brisbane admitted it was our age difference which lead to his abrupt disappearance and inevitable skulldugery, yet thought it was “no big deal” to reach out, insinuating we hook up again soon. And, three months after leaving Vancouver for Calgary, my coworker conquest surprised me in Cancun, attempting yet again to “exercise his right” with me, only to go back to his hotel room, limp and empty handed.