When I opened the newspaper on Tuesday, I turned to page A13. There was no particular reason for the selection of that page. I never considered the number 13 to be either lucky or unlucky. I never got that whole 13 thing. How again was it supposed to be a sign of bad luck? Why did most elevators omit the thirteen button? Did it have anything to do with Friday the 13th? Was it a Christian thing? From what I recall Jews considered 13 to be a lucky number than an unlucky one. But Jews were luckier than most, Jewish men that was. At the age of 13 all Jewish boys turned into a men. That was when they celebrated their Bar Mitzvah and got a shitload of gifts, if I correctly recall.
My Jewish friend Jason Gad told me that back in the days fathers would take their thirteen year old boys to the local brothel where they made sure they became men. My father was never as generous. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I grew up in an Atheist family. My atheism never got me anywhere. If I were Jewish and lived back in the day I, then maybe, just maybe, I would not have to wait until the age of nineteen to pop my cherry, but hey, what can I say? One cannot change his past. One cannot turn back the clock and improve his record. And so, when it came to women, I just accepted the way things turned out and never bothered to think about the past too much.
On page A13, the newspaper ran a story about interoffice dynamics and the modern work environment. According to a recent poll conducted by the University of Pennsylvania’s Center for Public Opinion Research, the majority of people preferred to have a male as their boss then they did a female. The numbers got even more interesting when one considered the actual breakdown.
According to the survey, 34% of males preferred to have a male boss, 10% of them preferred a female boss, while the rest of them (56%) did not care either way. As for the women, they were much more adamant about the subject at hand. According to the survey 40% of female survey participants preferred a male boss, 26% of them preferred a female boss, while 32% of them did not care. Clearly women “did not care” less than did males which to me signified that they clearly did care and it was not in the favor of their fellow females.
This of course brought me to the obvious conclusion, one that I have intrinsically known for many years and did not need any newspaper or academic public opinion survey to confirm – Women were never big fans of other women, they never really trusted one another, they never really liked each other.
Yea, yea, I know what women will say, “most of my best friends are female, I have had the same female friends ever since I grew up and they would stand with me through thick and thin.”
That is what they would tell you, but I never believed this propaganda, I know better than that. I have seen enough in my short life and have tasted enough cheeseburgers to know better than to believe anything that they printed in the newspapers, especially when it comes to the New York Times.
Women to women were and always would be snakes; they were the thorn at the side of one another. But forget the analogies and all of those fancy metaphors, that junk is for writers. I am no writer nor am I a scholar of any sorts. I am a waiter. I work at a local TGI Friday’s restaurant. I wear the red and white stripes with much pride. I serve overpriced prepackaged junk food to a bunch of drunk customers who very much like me frequent the place just to catch a quick glance at our overzealous blond waitress whose fake smiles perfectly compliment their tightly packed anatomies.
This brings me to the whole point of the conversation and to that whole page A13 issue. It brings me to the unlikely topic of Jennifer Martin, my 6pm shift manager who recently altered the course of my once peaceful life.
Jennifer was a complete bitch on wheels. Jennifer was the kind of a boss that would make 99 out of a hundred males and females vote in opposition to any female boss regardless of their income level, age or education. Jennifer was the worst woman of all. She was menstruated 31 days out of the month. She housed the devil between her ears. She houses everyone else between her legs (with the exception of yours truly).
Jennifer was not a misunderstood person. She is clearly understood and the understanding pointed to her malevolence. There were not many good things that one could say about Jennifer even if they tried really hard. That of course was with the exception of her lovely tits. They were huge and they are real. They were the kind that would make any heterosexual male and every bicurious woman take a careful look and painfully yearn for nothing but a quick taste of God’s great creation.
Did I mention that I preferred the fake ones? I never understood why anyone preferred naturals. Fake tits never dropped. Real ones eventually did. Of course there were exceptions. But with fake ones, you never had to deal with physics. They always stood up right no matter if the woman was twenty five or fifty two years of age. I was always a big fan of huge tits. There was no particular reason for that. Like most men, I had no real utility for them, I sometimes just felt like sticking my face in between that cushioned valley and tossing my nose from side to side. Talk about exercise. Look at all of those things that men would do to burn off calories. So ladies, any volunteers out there? Leave a message on my answering machine. I usually checked my voicemail late on Wednesdays; sometimes I checked them early on Thursday mornings. Ladies, do you want to show off your true nature? Send a few photos to my PO Box and wait for a reply.
But Jennifer, she never called, she never left a message nor did she ever send any revealing photos in the mail. She must have been too busy fucking our restaurant manager, Mark Epstein (The Second). That guy was falsely assembled at the factory. Someone accidently misplaced his ass in the same location where his face should have been positioned. After all, what else would account for the large amounts of bullshit that came out of his mouth on the daily?
To someone who did not know any better, it may seem that I was simply jealous of Mark, jealous of another man’s ability to go to places where I have never ventured before. But such was not the case. Such would simply be a misinterpretation of my true nature. I was not the jealous type. However, I could be described as the covetous type.
But this whole Jennifer story had nothing to do with Mark Epstein (The Second); it had nothing to do with Jennifer’s perfect pair of tits or with the fact that I had not had sexual relations with any woman in twelve days, three hours and seventeen long minutes.
Everything that had to do with Page A13 only reminded me of Jennifer Martin. But I tend to misrepresent. Jennifer was never anything but nice to me in the year and a half that she served as my boss. She was a fair boss, she never busted my balls and she was always good for a late night drink. Everything between the two of us was always good until that day that she introduced me to Lisa Nguyen, her best friend and old college roommate from Colorado State University.
At closing time, a few days ago, we all gathered around the bar, counted tips and told stories about the idiotic customers that we encountered on that night. Everything was pretty much as ordinary, good times and free drinks. Jody was working the bar that night. After all the customers left, she let the drinks flow like butter on a ham. Free drinks always tasted better than those you had to pay for. It was one of the key perks of wearing the old red and white suspenders.
Jody and Jennifer were laughing with Bruce, our assistant manager. I just smiled and enjoyed the moment, thinking what it would be like to see naked at my side. Around 1am, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. I suspected that we would soon encounter Mr. Mark Epstein (The Second) but was soon happy to head Jenn announce that Lisa visiting from out of town.
Lisa and I met a few times before. She recently moved out to Delaware where she worked as an admission’s counselor at some small private university. Apparently, there was not much to do around Newark, DE (pronounced Ne-Wark as opposed to Ne-Work, NJ) and so she would hop in her car on weekends and find her way to our TGIF.
The last time we all met was a few weeks ago. Jenn and Lisa got all drunk and dragged me back to Jenn’s apartment were we all played Karaoke on her Sony Playstation. They must have gone through an entire rendition of songs from the 80s and 90s that almost drove me nuts. Jennifer loved Brittney Spears and I had no choice but to play along. The worst was when they made me join them in a drunk version of the Spice Girls song, If You Want To Be My Lover.
One that night, after all the singing and boozing, Lisa and I made out while Jenn passed out on the couch. I tried my best to stick my busy fingers under Lisa’s tiny Asian bra but she would have none of it.
And now, here she was, once again, she was all smiles.
Jody made Lisa her favorite cocktail, a Gray Goose dirty martini with an extra shot of olive juice and two extra shots of vodka. Soon enough, Lisa was ready to go. But it was getting late and Jennifer was too tired to party on that night. And besides, Mark was waiting for her to show up at his place. They planned a big trip to Upstate on the following morning and she really needed to catch some sleep.
To my surprise, Jennifer suggested that I would be the one to take Lisa out and show her a good time. This brings me back to page A13 of the New York Times. When the survey participants had to answer whether they preferred a male to a female boss, no one ever mentioned to them just how gorgeous their female boss would be, how amazingly hot their old college roommates would be and how the rest of the night turned out.
www.hardboiledmen.com
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Bukowski and Books
Question: Who is your favorite author?
Answer: Hold on, don’t answer just yet; think about it for a moment.
According to a recent survey, more than 89 million Americans DID NOT read a book in 2007 (US National Endowment for the Arts). Meantime, those who do read tend to focus on non fiction and how to books:
How to lose 50 pounds in 50 days?
How to become a millionaire in three months?
How to make a man commit?
How to make a woman orgasm?
How to win friends and influence people?
How to tell if a man is marriage material?
How to know who is going to win an election simply by looking at candidates’ height and age?
And then there is fiction. You know, those books that are not written in bullets. Then can not be summarized by Top 10 lists. When it comes to fiction, most Americans seek advice from the grand marshal herself Mrs. Oprah Winfrey, if you make it to her list, you are pretty much guaranteed a spot on the best seller list and there is nothing wrong with that. One occasion, she gets it absolutely right (and at times she did not).
So what do most Americans read? Well, there are those author giants such as J. K. Rowling, James Patterson, John Grisham, Danielle Steel, Dean Koontz and Josephine Cox. Much like any local Wal-Mart store, these authors each dominate sales in their own genre. There is nothing particularly wrong with any of these authors. Most of them found the formula to America’s taste in literature (and pocketbooks) and have thus dominated top seller lists for years.
What scares me more than anything, however, are the millions of readers who never heard of the classics and by classics, I am not referring to Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe or Jules Verne.
I am referring to more contemporary authors; those authors who dared to piss off the corporate establishment and thus ended, at times, with the short end of the literary stick.
Take Charles Bukowski as an example. Charles Whom? You ask?
Henry Charles Bukowski was a German-American poet slash author who managed to publish dozens of books of poetry, short stories and fiction in his short seventy four years on this earth (mostly spent in LA bars). Thanks to the vision of John Martin and his Black Sparrow publication, Hank dedicated himself to sitting down and writing books (in addition to his love for the poem as he described it). The marriage between Black Sparrow and Bukowski proved magical and resulted in such great works of literature as Ham on Rye, Post Office, Women and Factotum. Bukowski whose work was largely inspired by such authors as John Fante, Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Anton Chekhov has inspired a new generation of contemporary authors such as Guy Jacobs, Dan Fante and Tom Paine.
You would think that an author like Bukowski who wrote about getting laid, drinking heavily and under-advantaged fist fighting would attract the attention of those younger male readers who themselves are trying to accomplish much of what Hank Bukowski worked towards and yet, that is not the case.
I recently searched through Charles Bukowski groups on both Facebook and Myspace. There, I discovered that the majority of Bukowski fans came from such corners of the world as Turkey, Slovenia, France and Belgium. Most of them were women as well. This is not a big surprise. Women tend to read more than males, especially those under the age of twenty five (the guys are too busy with looking at online pornography, playing video games and jerking off).
There is much more to be written about the topic of literature and books. Although, most of us authors do somewhere, somehow acknowledge that writing and reading is a dying art (thank you media convergence). Still we do it because this is who we are and this is what we do.
For those of you who are wondering which books you should pick up next, here is a list of recommendations:
1. Sexus by Henry Miller
2. The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski
3. Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
4. Ask the Dust by John Fante
5. Hard Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs
6. Straight Man by Richard Russo
7. Portnoy’s complaint by Philip Roth
8. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
9. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
10. A Fan's Notes by Frederick Exley
That is all for today, get off of your computer and go read a book
Thursday, October 9, 2008
What Men Don't Know About the Female Orgasm
www.hardboiledmen.com
John May woke up early that morning for no apparent reason. He brewed up a pot of coffee on that old Mr. Coffee machine that he held on to ever since his graduate school days. If it ain’t broke, why bother to buy a new one, he thought. The cold wind that ran through the streets of Pittsburg did not provide enough incentive for John to put a pair of sweatpants on. In his underwear, he greeted the morning.
John May was the kind of a guy who enjoyed his morning routine and nothing was more central to that routine than the old cup of cup and reading the morning newspaper. John did not have much interest in the news sections, the financials or even the sports. He was the kind of a man who read between the lines searching for a clue. Of course, one could theoretically argue that John was a bit of a conspiracy theory but that was not the case at all (or maybe it was). John knew the ways of the media. He had an undergraduate degree in journalism and knew all about newsroom routines, gatekeeping and media framing. In between the lines was the way that those in charge communicated with one another. In between the advertorials, editorials and daily columns, in the fine print, that was where the truth was hidden from the reading masses.
On page A5 John came across a clue. The headline could not be more convincing.
52% OF WOMEN NEVER EXPERIENCED AN ORGASM, the headline read.
This was exactly the kind of a thing that made you wonder. And if it did not make you wonder, thought John, well at least it should.
Back in the old days, he ran across old Herb Schiller his journalism professor back at the University of California at San Diego. Schiller told the class that they should never believe anything they read in the newspaper.
“Everything that you read in the newspaper, hear on the radio or watch on television is nothing short of a corporate conspiracy to turn you into a better consumer. Those people want you to equate your happiness with the art of shopping. Had a bad day at work, buy some shoes. Your boyfriend cheated on you, take his credit card and get some shopping therapy. Don’t believe anything that they say.” That was the kind of a lecture that would often be heard in Schiller’s seminars. John May loved every part of it. It made sense when you really thought about it.
The coffee tasted a bit rusty that morning. Maybe Pam was right after all. Maybe it was time to buy a new coffee maker and throw away the old dusty machine that he bought at Target for ten dollars more than three years ago.
But what about the headline, he thought could this really be true? Fifty two percent seemed a bit excessive to John. And what those other forty eight percent, he thought. Was it a function of psychology or was it all the guy’s fault as he heard many of his female friends argue. Thinking back to those five women that he somehow managed to lay so far in his short twenty five year career, he could not remember if 2.6 of those women actually did or did not reach sexual climax.
The first time he did it was sometime back in high school. He was a frightened pimple faced junior and she, an overweight twenty four year old woman who seemed more bored than anything on her overextended semester break. Thinking back of that night, he felt nothing but shame when he recalled just how quickly he came just as soon as he felt that incredible touch of the female flesh for the very first time in his life.
Her name was Lucy and she did not protest. She was more of a resourceful type than a complainer. She simply walked into the shower, cleaned herself up and then forced him to eat her out until should reached satisfaction.
Then there was that girl that he met during freshman orientation back at UCSD . She was a stacked woman with enough meat on her to feed a small village in Bangladesh. John did not remember her name. When he thought about it, he never did know it in the first place. They somehow stumbled into bed after a freshman party back in the dorms. John did not have any condoms on him but she insisted on penetration. Twenty seconds later, her sizeable stomach was painted in the colors of white apprehension. She gave him a dirty look and then proceeded to transfer into the bed of his roommate who pretended to be sleeping. John stared at the dorm ceiling as he listened to his roommate Dave give the girl a proper fuck. Ten minutes passed and then he heard a woman come for the first time. Was she faking it out of spite for his non-proficient performance or did Dave really supply the goods. 48% says that it was spite over Dave.
Then there was Patty, the girl he briefly dated during senior year. Patty came from a small town in Alabama. He could not remember if it was Tuscaloosa or someplace right in the area. Patty was a nice girl. She was always kind to John and was the one who taught him how to manage his erections and hold on to them for just a bit longer. She showed him how at a simple push of the external vein, right at the base of the cock, he could buy himself a few more seconds inside.
When it came to Patty Valentine, John had no doubts. If anyone had an orgasm it was her. How did he know? Well she always made a point to announce. Clinching on to his skin, grinding her teeth and pulling his hair she rotated her hips all around, closed her eyes, scratch her nails until she finally shout out that old slogan of the Alabama football team: GOOOOOOOO TIIIIIEEEEDDDD.
Patty loved the University of Alabama football team. This she made clear every Saturday when she watched SEC football. This she made clear on those rare occasions when he managed to hold on long enough to validate the newspaper’s statistics.
John managed to fall in love with Patty Valentine and things were going pretty well until graduation. They talked about moving in together. They talked about graduate school out in Iowa State were John was admitted into a Master’s degree with a guaranteed research stipend for his first three semesters. Things were moving along on track until Patty flew down to Alabama to visit her family a few weeks after graduation. There she met up with her old high school sweetheart Dale Gary who not only played high school football for the champion Cougars but was also a walk on defensive end for the University of Louisiana Raging Cajun football team.
John was crushed when he heard the news. Patty never bothered to fly back to deliver the news face to face. It all happened so quickly over the phone. John tried to reason with her, to win her sympathy, to appeal to her love, but none was left for him. He had no choice but to move on.
After Patty, John took a break from women. They were creatures of betrayal, he thought. Their only loyalty was to their own interests. They knew nothing of a man’s heart.
It was two years later that Pamela came into his world. Pam was not an attractive woman but at least she was nice. At first she refused anything beyond friendship. Why ruin a good thing with all of those complications? She often told him when he tried to come close and kiss her.
Pam introduced John to her girlfriends as her heterosexual gay friend. John never really connected with any of those types. But on one particular Friday night they were playing drinking games and John had way too much to drink. The only thing that he recalled was waking up naked next to Pam’s most horrendous looking friend, Michelle. Nothing was to ever be spoken of that night, he pledged. The shame was beyond him. Number four would be kept secret for as long as possible. He only hoped that Pam would never find out about the events that took place on that night. Despite his best hopes, Michelle told her all but Pam did not seem to mind.
About a year later, to his surprise, Pam turned into number five. He could not be any happier.
John stared at the newspaper headline and scratched his head. There was so much that he did not know about women. Unfortunately, he did not too many male friends to give him any advice.
Later one, when Pam woke up, she poured herself some Hazelnut creamer into her rusty cup of coffee.
“Don’t believe everything that you read in the newspaper John. That statistic could only be written by a man and obviously, a relatively ignorant one. The real numbers are much lower than you would think. I even doubt that 33% of women ever experienced a multiple orgasm and numbers may actually be lower.
John was never that good when it came down to statistics. Back when he was an undergraduate student, he barely passed the Introduction to Business Statistics course with a below average grade of C-. As for women, newspaper headlines and the rest of the world, John all but understood that he will never truly understand.
“Did you ever have a real orgasm with me?” he asked of Pam.
She in turn simply smiled and said, “Well of course I did sweaty, you gave me many.”
John felt better for a moment until he recalled that university lecture back in his undergraduate days at UCSD where he learned not to trust anything that was printed in the newspaper, heard on the radio or seen on TV but more than anything else he learned never to trust the smile of a more experienced woman.
www.hardboiledmen.com
John May woke up early that morning for no apparent reason. He brewed up a pot of coffee on that old Mr. Coffee machine that he held on to ever since his graduate school days. If it ain’t broke, why bother to buy a new one, he thought. The cold wind that ran through the streets of Pittsburg did not provide enough incentive for John to put a pair of sweatpants on. In his underwear, he greeted the morning.
John May was the kind of a guy who enjoyed his morning routine and nothing was more central to that routine than the old cup of cup and reading the morning newspaper. John did not have much interest in the news sections, the financials or even the sports. He was the kind of a man who read between the lines searching for a clue. Of course, one could theoretically argue that John was a bit of a conspiracy theory but that was not the case at all (or maybe it was). John knew the ways of the media. He had an undergraduate degree in journalism and knew all about newsroom routines, gatekeeping and media framing. In between the lines was the way that those in charge communicated with one another. In between the advertorials, editorials and daily columns, in the fine print, that was where the truth was hidden from the reading masses.
On page A5 John came across a clue. The headline could not be more convincing.
52% OF WOMEN NEVER EXPERIENCED AN ORGASM, the headline read.
This was exactly the kind of a thing that made you wonder. And if it did not make you wonder, thought John, well at least it should.
Back in the old days, he ran across old Herb Schiller his journalism professor back at the University of California at San Diego. Schiller told the class that they should never believe anything they read in the newspaper.
“Everything that you read in the newspaper, hear on the radio or watch on television is nothing short of a corporate conspiracy to turn you into a better consumer. Those people want you to equate your happiness with the art of shopping. Had a bad day at work, buy some shoes. Your boyfriend cheated on you, take his credit card and get some shopping therapy. Don’t believe anything that they say.” That was the kind of a lecture that would often be heard in Schiller’s seminars. John May loved every part of it. It made sense when you really thought about it.
The coffee tasted a bit rusty that morning. Maybe Pam was right after all. Maybe it was time to buy a new coffee maker and throw away the old dusty machine that he bought at Target for ten dollars more than three years ago.
But what about the headline, he thought could this really be true? Fifty two percent seemed a bit excessive to John. And what those other forty eight percent, he thought. Was it a function of psychology or was it all the guy’s fault as he heard many of his female friends argue. Thinking back to those five women that he somehow managed to lay so far in his short twenty five year career, he could not remember if 2.6 of those women actually did or did not reach sexual climax.
The first time he did it was sometime back in high school. He was a frightened pimple faced junior and she, an overweight twenty four year old woman who seemed more bored than anything on her overextended semester break. Thinking back of that night, he felt nothing but shame when he recalled just how quickly he came just as soon as he felt that incredible touch of the female flesh for the very first time in his life.
Her name was Lucy and she did not protest. She was more of a resourceful type than a complainer. She simply walked into the shower, cleaned herself up and then forced him to eat her out until should reached satisfaction.
Then there was that girl that he met during freshman orientation back at UCSD . She was a stacked woman with enough meat on her to feed a small village in Bangladesh. John did not remember her name. When he thought about it, he never did know it in the first place. They somehow stumbled into bed after a freshman party back in the dorms. John did not have any condoms on him but she insisted on penetration. Twenty seconds later, her sizeable stomach was painted in the colors of white apprehension. She gave him a dirty look and then proceeded to transfer into the bed of his roommate who pretended to be sleeping. John stared at the dorm ceiling as he listened to his roommate Dave give the girl a proper fuck. Ten minutes passed and then he heard a woman come for the first time. Was she faking it out of spite for his non-proficient performance or did Dave really supply the goods. 48% says that it was spite over Dave.
Then there was Patty, the girl he briefly dated during senior year. Patty came from a small town in Alabama. He could not remember if it was Tuscaloosa or someplace right in the area. Patty was a nice girl. She was always kind to John and was the one who taught him how to manage his erections and hold on to them for just a bit longer. She showed him how at a simple push of the external vein, right at the base of the cock, he could buy himself a few more seconds inside.
When it came to Patty Valentine, John had no doubts. If anyone had an orgasm it was her. How did he know? Well she always made a point to announce. Clinching on to his skin, grinding her teeth and pulling his hair she rotated her hips all around, closed her eyes, scratch her nails until she finally shout out that old slogan of the Alabama football team: GOOOOOOOO TIIIIIEEEEDDDD.
Patty loved the University of Alabama football team. This she made clear every Saturday when she watched SEC football. This she made clear on those rare occasions when he managed to hold on long enough to validate the newspaper’s statistics.
John managed to fall in love with Patty Valentine and things were going pretty well until graduation. They talked about moving in together. They talked about graduate school out in Iowa State were John was admitted into a Master’s degree with a guaranteed research stipend for his first three semesters. Things were moving along on track until Patty flew down to Alabama to visit her family a few weeks after graduation. There she met up with her old high school sweetheart Dale Gary who not only played high school football for the champion Cougars but was also a walk on defensive end for the University of Louisiana Raging Cajun football team.
John was crushed when he heard the news. Patty never bothered to fly back to deliver the news face to face. It all happened so quickly over the phone. John tried to reason with her, to win her sympathy, to appeal to her love, but none was left for him. He had no choice but to move on.
After Patty, John took a break from women. They were creatures of betrayal, he thought. Their only loyalty was to their own interests. They knew nothing of a man’s heart.
It was two years later that Pamela came into his world. Pam was not an attractive woman but at least she was nice. At first she refused anything beyond friendship. Why ruin a good thing with all of those complications? She often told him when he tried to come close and kiss her.
Pam introduced John to her girlfriends as her heterosexual gay friend. John never really connected with any of those types. But on one particular Friday night they were playing drinking games and John had way too much to drink. The only thing that he recalled was waking up naked next to Pam’s most horrendous looking friend, Michelle. Nothing was to ever be spoken of that night, he pledged. The shame was beyond him. Number four would be kept secret for as long as possible. He only hoped that Pam would never find out about the events that took place on that night. Despite his best hopes, Michelle told her all but Pam did not seem to mind.
About a year later, to his surprise, Pam turned into number five. He could not be any happier.
John stared at the newspaper headline and scratched his head. There was so much that he did not know about women. Unfortunately, he did not too many male friends to give him any advice.
Later one, when Pam woke up, she poured herself some Hazelnut creamer into her rusty cup of coffee.
“Don’t believe everything that you read in the newspaper John. That statistic could only be written by a man and obviously, a relatively ignorant one. The real numbers are much lower than you would think. I even doubt that 33% of women ever experienced a multiple orgasm and numbers may actually be lower.
John was never that good when it came down to statistics. Back when he was an undergraduate student, he barely passed the Introduction to Business Statistics course with a below average grade of C-. As for women, newspaper headlines and the rest of the world, John all but understood that he will never truly understand.
“Did you ever have a real orgasm with me?” he asked of Pam.
She in turn simply smiled and said, “Well of course I did sweaty, you gave me many.”
John felt better for a moment until he recalled that university lecture back in his undergraduate days at UCSD where he learned not to trust anything that was printed in the newspaper, heard on the radio or seen on TV but more than anything else he learned never to trust the smile of a more experienced woman.
www.hardboiledmen.com
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