My sex life is certainly NOT like the movies, . . . I just wish it was ~ Lucky Lopez

Blog #3: Lucky Lopez’s Lesson #2

Day 63:  No Sex

Never assume that a prized technique that consistently works on one man, will work on another.

So I have now survived 2 months and 1 week – trudging through the desperate dessert sands of my sexual drought.

My boyfriend (of 3 months) and I have not had sex in 63 long, frustrating days.

The continual mystery is that despite our lack of activity under the sheets, we have an otherwise happy and harmonious relationship.

I know the logically obvious thing to do would be to dump the guy.  However, there is simply no biological, scientific, psychological, and even more so – astrological way I could do that.

You see, I am an Aries.

And as an Aries, I refuse to give up on all things hopeless – somehow motivated by the sadly sadistic attempt to achieve the impossible in relationships.

That’s just how I’m built.

As some of you may know, my pathetic stab at seduction through the use of “creative costuming” failed miserably last week.

Make no mistake my friends:  My effort was more than an old “college try.”  I practically took home one of each of Frederick’s and Victoria’s entire selection: from sexy to naughty, to delicate and demur, to racy and extreme.  You name it – I tried it.

Despite my valiant effort to play try different “roles,” I was repeatedly left staring at my bedroom ceiling – entirely unfulfilled when the “credits rolled” at the end of the night.

The most I got from my sexually repressed boyfriend was: “You bought some new stuff huh?”

Clueless, I swear.

After finally surrendering my useless lingerie strategy, I found myself resentful at “Victoria” and “Frederick”:  Cursing them for luring me to believe that a twirl in the right nightie, teddy, or cami would assure a good toss on the bed by my desirous boyfriend – followed by a course of viciously savage and immensely primal love-making.

Ummmm.  Wrong!

However, after all my internal fits of buyer’s remorse subsided, I realized I resented them most for failing to add: “must have hot Brazilian model to operate:  hot Brazilian model not included” on their sales tags.  Damn them.

So once again I found myself sex-strategizing.  And while brainstorming over my favorite hazelnut cream enriched coffee, I came up with the following realization:

You know all those myths we were saturated with as teenagers – accusing boys of not being capable of thinking of anything other than sex?

Well, I’m here to tell you most certainly, undeniably, and unequivocally – that myth is ummmm . . . . how shall I say? . . . Bullshit?

Okay, perhaps I’m being a little melodramatic – Let me just say that myth may be true for teenage “boys,” however that tendency apparently expires for men at some point after the age of 30 – or at least it has for my current boyfriend who is apparently not alone.

According to WebMD Magazine. “Many, many men (about one in five) have such low sexual desire they’d rather do almost anything else than have sex.  In fact almost 30% of women say they have more interest in sex than their partner has.”

Floored by these alarming statistics, I can’t help but wonder:  Are all those popular metro-sexual trends really just depleting our men of sex-starved testosterone?

Are men becoming women in that they would absolutely give up a decent romp in the bedroom for a good mani and pedi?

In either case, although these statistics make me feel less alone, they still don’t quench my persistently unfulfilled need to have sex.

I am now regretful of all those teenage years I wasted in fear – under the false perception that I could not be near a man and any horizontal plane without him attempting to conquer me like an animalistic caveman, taking advantage of my innocent womanly loins.

Perhaps it was my traditional Latin/Catholic upbringing that provided me with such a false sense of “hope.”  My wonderful mother – in her guarding and over protective manner; convinced me that if a boy so much as glanced at my breasts and I enjoyed it – I would get pregnant.

For some inexplicable reason, I believed her.

In fact, until the age of 10, I irrationally believed that my young Latina relatives were pumping out babies simply because they didn’t know how to avert these maliciously seductive attempts by the male species.

I later “wised up” and realized that the hip swerving tunes of Ricky Martin were what were really causing an influx of “immaculate” conceptions . . . I kid.

Once again, I digress . . . back to defeating my “no sex” hump.

In my desperation, I called up an old college friend of mine who always seems sexually saturated:  Marie.

Marie has always been my mentor when it came to matters of sex.  She was in fact the one who guided me oh-so-tenderly, after having my virginal petals plucked my freshman year of college.

Marie is that woman you would love to hate – but can’t help looking up to.  She is sexy, charming, and bold.  She’s not drop-dead gorgeous by any means, but her natural, uncanny ability to make men desperately want her is what makes her tragically sexy.

She’s an ad rep at a big agency in Hollywood.  You know the type that specializes in handing out cellophane wrapped gift baskets filled with everything “designer.”  Its enough overpriced shit to make you sick, or jealous – one of the two.

In either case, I have been awed by her remarkable capacity to maintain a sexually happy and healthy relationship with a struggling L.A. photographer by the name of Ryan for the past two years.  I am exceptionally aware of their sexual progress because Marie is one of those women who feel compelled to share whatever sexual adventure she just experienced prior to arriving at any given destination.

Her trademark is walking into a restaurant, and while arriving at your table nonchalantly states something to the effect of:  “Ryan and I just had the best sex ever in the cab on the way over” . . . and in the same sentence mentions how great the house wine, or salad dressing is at that particular place.

So, we agreed to meet at her favorite Thai place in Hollywood.  She insisted that a no-sex dilemma was an occasion that required plenty of spring rolls, pad thai, and sticky rice.  I (of course) agreed.  After all, any time is a good time for sticky rice.

After unloading all of my sexual woes, I sat like an apprentice – waiting for the doors of sexual wisdom to open.

She gently put down her chopsticks, and like yoda about to reveal the secret to defeating Darth Vader she smirked – leaving me in absolute suspense.

My eyes remained peeled, wondering what could possibly unlock the door to eternal sexual bliss. . .

She leaned over to me and in the most casual tone said:  “Praise his penis.”

(long pause).

“Praise his penis???”  I asked out loud – like a contestant on “Wheel of Fortune” finally solving the phrase of the day.

“Yes, praise his penis,” she says – while taking another sip of her saki.

The next couple of minutes seemed like an eternity, as I critically replayed every sexual failure in my head – realizing all I had to do all along was “praise his penis.” – whatever that meant.

“I am having a hard time here.  Can you please explain?” I urged.

Marie:  “Well, ever since day one, I have always praised Ryan’s penis – you know, give him a little “penis pat” –  a little stroke to the old male performance ego.”

“A penis pat?  Like how?” I asked.

Marie:  “Well – look at it this way – the words you would use to describe how you would like to be pleased – instead of describing you, describe his penis.  For example:  your penis is so long, or your penis is so soft.  It’s like reverse psychology – the words you use to describe his penis, he will strive to imitate when trying to please you” . . .

“So let me get this right, you’re just standing around the kitchen – and while in the middle of peeling cucumbers, you turn to him and say:  I love your penis, it’s so long?”

“Yup.”  She says confidently, almost as if I had just asked whether 1 plus 1 equaled 2.

“Ohhhh.  Well that makes all the sense in the world,” I said – still puzzled with the whole thing.

Nonetheless, we proceeded to stuff ourselves with the most divine sticky rice, while Marie continued to affirm her claim that a regular “penis pat” was the secret to maintaining a sexually healthy relationship.  She insisted that the out-of-the-blue, unexpected nature of a penis pat incites just the right amount of testosterone to unleash a desperate sexual predator.

I must admit, I left the restaurant still slightly puzzled, yet extremely excited to employ my newly discovered sex-advocating tool.

When I arrived home – my beau was sitting on the couch (in traditional fashion), watching his beloved CNN.

Again, I was challenged with attempting to turn the tragic headlines of the day into subliminal messages of seduction – prompting him to charge at me with testosterone driven desire . . .

Oh how I love to dream.

After giving him a sweet kiss hello, I proceeded to sit next to him on our hand-me-down couch – waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike him with my new “penis pat” technique.

Well I waited, . . . and it never came.

Finally – in my desperation, realizing I was running out of time – I decided to unleash my new modus operandi while he performed his “getting ready for bed” routine.

There I stood – in the doorframe of the bathroom, staring at him with lust while he strategically placed a strip of toothpaste on his favorite mechanical toothbrush.

He glanced at me a few times – wondering what made this particular teeth cleaning more interesting than the rest.

After a few awkward moments, I finally found the courage to blurt out the words: “I love your penis . . . it’s really long.”

He stood there – with foamy toothpaste running down his jaw – and eventually paused to say: “ummm . . . thank you?”  and then imperviously continued to execute his “getting ready for bed” routine.

I piddled around in the bedroom for a while, hoping that the “unexpected factor” would decide to take suddenly take it’s course – crossing my fingers that the mere shock of my incredibly effective “penis pat” simply caused a delayed reaction.

Ummm . . . no such luck.

As I laid in bed that night, fully clothed – him snoring like a beast in the wild – those famous last words resounded painfully in my head: “I love your penis . . . it’s really long . . . I love your penis . . . it’s really long . . .”

Before finally drifting off into a sexless slumber, I decided to make a small note to self:  “Never assume that prized techniques that work on one man will work on another.”

Thanks anyway Marie.

Until next time.


Copyright 2010 Converge Entertainment, LLC

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