I Wanna Be A Cow

It’s been a while since I last invited Boytoy over to play. I paused him back in early June, feigning an interest in someone else. In reality, I’d simply lost interest in him. Sure, our last rendezvous did result in plenty of moanful moments but it also represented the first time he’d slipped up on the presentation factor. I totally understand getting comfortable with someone but I draw the line with smelly feet, a mouth that tastes like an ashtray and, well, at the risk of over share, a bum in need of slightly better washing. Let’s just say the entire tryst left a bad taste in my mouth, literally.

My first almost relapse with Boytoy was back in August. For some reason, those long days hammering and caulking in Beaumont gave me the urge to, um, get down and dirty. Then I started thinking about it. As I stood in baggage claim of Terminal D waiting for Continental to deliver my duffle, I pondered un-pausing Boytoy. As the thoughts filled my head, my face scrunched into that icky expression usually reserved for four year olds when they’re told to eat their brussel sprouts. I grabbed my bag and decided to keep the pause button in place.

Inviting Boytoy back into the folds of my routine would take away time I could use for other productive things. Like my writing or finding a man I’d actually want to be seen in public with. On the flip side, being with Boytoy again wouldn’t impact my number. I mean, he’s a repeat offender so he only counts once, right? I know. I could have been an accountant at Enron with my math skills. Throw a girl a bone. Or more specifically, a boner. Decisions, decisions.

No! Stop it! His butt tasted like, well, butt the last time around. I went and got a $70 Brazilian and he couldn’t even shower before coming over? Plus, there’s that adorable baseball guy. The one from last week. Yeah, I’m back doing the online dating thing. eHarmony to be exact. Nothing less and nothing more. One gloomy and sneezy Saturday night, I sat curled up on the sofa with a box of tissues and a bruised ego and somehow convinced myself to give that website a try. I’m blaming it all on Tylenol Cold. But I'm on a tangent. eHarmony and the men I've met from there are another story for another post.

So seriously now, I totally agree with that theory about a cow and the milk and why buy it if you can get it for free. Makes sense. Completely. But sometimes milk is all I want. Or perhaps I should say I'm okay with being just milk instead of the whole cow, because we all know the metaphor only applies to women. Why is it so despicable to be milk? Nah. Scratch that. I ultimately wanna be a cow.

So now I've sworn off casual sex, even with repeat offenders. At least that's where I'm hanging my hat today. I don't know. Maybe sex isn't supposed to involve so much thought. We are technically animals, you know. Do you think dogs congregate at the park and discuss whether they're going to put out on a second date? Do you think they even have dates? No. It's all so silly. The male dog sees a bitch he wants to mount, his little retractable penis comes out to play and he goes to town humping whatever he wants. Sadly, sometimes it's my leg. And for the time being, that along with some Duracell sponsored moments is just about all of the play this horny cow is getting.