October 1997
s m u g
bumping uglies
by Todd Levin


Premature Ejaculation: The Quick and The Sleepy

Okay, Okay. I have written and tossed out approximately three possible pieces for this month's column. I troubled and toiled, trying to meet my deadline before Leslie resorted to the leather gauntlet (and not the new, stiff leather gauntlet that I like so much; the old, malodorous one she uses on Jack). But as I was writing, each time, all I could think was, "No matter how much the world wants to hear about adult babies and corrugated cardboard fetishists, I simply don't give 600-1000 damns about them right now" (see my next column - "Adult Babies in Corrugated Cardboard Diapers: Good for the Gander").

Now, as I sit here in my cold and flu sickbed - sniffly, stuffed with mucous, and totally hopped up on rophynols - I am going to do something I don't always like to do. I am going to drink my own urine. Then I am going to share something personal with all of you. I am going to drink my urine because I read a Mexican pornographic comic book once where a naked vampire drank someone's urine and developed the power to shoot laser beams from her vagina and I think, without being overly optimistic, it might at least help to shake this fever. And I am going to share something personal with you because, well, I blew off my Jungian analyst this week.

Of all the letters I receive, one question seems to come up constantly: "Will you give my wife a tongue bath?" And before I have time to answer that, I am plagued by yet another persistent, nagging question from my wonderfully loyal, elite gang of ninja readers: "If this is supposed to be a sex column and all, why don't you ever write anything about actually having sex?" Touché, mes amis. Well, here's a confession that, if told by many of my ex-girlfriends (most of whom are in "rest" homes right now, no doubt writing tell-alls about our time together - at least the ones who are old enough to write) would really be framed as more of an accusation: truth be told, I come early. Way early. Like, I arrive earlier than a senior citizen at a Ponderosa Dinner Buffet. There. I said it. It burns like so much cheap grain alcohol (specifically, the brand I am currently roto-rooting down my throat as I write these very words) but it is unfortunately, unabashedly true. Sometimes.

© 1997 Mark Zingarelli

Ironically, I think sex is the only social event to which I ever arrive early. And I don't mean to; honest, I don't. I have given this dilemma an incredible amount of consideration - guilt-laden, hangdog, sticky, abandoned, kind-of-hungry-for-snacks consideration - but have drawn blank after blank in an attempt to attack the roots of my problem. At first I wrote it off to unbridled eagerness and curiosity, to a kind of over-earnestness in my efforts to please (myself, I think). Then I went to college. And had sex with Theater majors. There was no way I could even fake enthusiasm about that. But it still had no powers of ejaculatory deferral. I know this must be hard to believe.

Worse yet, I have often found myself alone in this sexual plague. Nowhere to turn. Can't really talk to my male friends about it. I don't know how many times I've listened to a guy recount some last-night affair and I'm always quick to weed out the "elapsed-time" brand of information. If someone tells me "30 minutes or so", he can expect to be attacked with a litany of probing questions. "Does that time include actual minutes inside a woman, or are you counting the entire time spent negotiating intercourse?" "Where does sex actually begin?" "Do you count putting on a condom as sex time? Do you count imagining how badly you are going to sex up this woman while you're both fully clothed and watching the 700 Club as sex time?"

I always get the same dumb, aloof answer: "Man, I don't know. I don't really keep track." I don't keep track. This floors me. The world has no idea how those words can chafe a man who times sexual intercourse with the precision of a hurdle jumper trying to beat his last time. I'm like Jack LaLanne pulling a rail car with his teeth: every unit of measurement counts. I carry sexual intercourse time out to the fifth decimal place.

I seriously wish I could hold out longer more often, could hang in there for my partner's sake, because I feel like I've got so much to give (and I'm in a hurry to unload it). I don't think it's out of selfishness or spite that I false-start so often. On the contrary, I want nothing more than to hang in there like a fighter fish, like a daredevil, like the guy from the Krazy Glue commercial (well, not really like him; he's a bit silly, after all). I have consulted with unreliable sources (i.e. friends with girlfriends) and tried to distract myself with ridiculous nonsexual thoughts to stave off the inevitable thunderstorm. I remember the first time I actually tried to distract myself with something as stupid and antiquated as baseball.

I think I learned about this technique from a Lockhorns comic strip. Anyway, it turned out to be a bigger problem than it was a solution, primarily because I honestly know next to nothing about baseball. So one time during sex with someone I met at a corrective medical shoe store (this was at a period when I was trying to meet women that I'd hoped I would not obsess on sexually), I started pulling the coveted baseball routine. I'm trying to dig up what I know about baseball just to provide myself with enough fodder to deflect desire. Which is when it occurs to me that the only thing I really know about baseball is a vivid, detailed knowledge of the 1982 LA Dodgers (I was young and, to place myself in the realm of boyhood and out of the realm of sissyhood, I became obsessively interested in baseball and, particularly, the LA Dodgers. This fascination soon dissipated as I discovered other boyhood distractions, like Swedish erotica and bathtub speed).

It was a great year for me, and an OK year for the Dodgers. So I'm thinking about the Dodgers, thinking about my childhood, thinking about all the action I got when I was 11 years old and... oof. There is nothing more embarrassing than ejaculating with the image of Fernando Venezuela cruising inside your head.

Needless to say, baseball doesn't work for me.

Problem is, any thought I can conjure up to distract myself from sex. This, I know, is wrong in the first place. How many women would be happy knowing that, in exchange for a few extra minutes of sexual flogging, their boyfriends' heads are filled with images of orthoscopic surgery and sex with the elderly? Please, don't answer this. It becomes, for me, as obsessive as thinking about sex itself. And, sadly, I can get off on my own concentration. As I try to mentally psyche myself out, it becomes a ridiculous personal struggle: the nightmarish lesions I dream up become warm vaginas; drinking a bucket of sand turns into drinking a bucket of Erotic Sand®. It's no good. If I don't come too soon out of exasperation, at the very least I start giggling like a schoolgirl. I don't know which is worse (Again -- don't answer this).

At the recommendation of friends and Barry White songs, I have tried all sorts of talismans and home remedies to thwart early arrivals. If you can think of one, chances are I've already burned through it - ginseng, tantric sex, tourniquets, industrial sealant, sex with Catholics. There's almost nothing I haven't considered. Most of it doesn't work at all. Then I hit on something, and totally by accident. I have found that if I make up a little mantra that I can say to myself over and over again, I can actually get some decent mileage these days. My personal mantra is actually the first verse of Hall and Oates' overlooked pop supernova, "Family Man":

She had sulky smile
She took her standard pose as she presented herself
She had sultry eyes, she made it perfectly plain
That she was his for a price

But he said "Leave me alone, I'm a family man
And my bark is much worse than my bite"
He said "Leave me alone, I'm a family man
But if you push me too far I just might"

Yes, Family Man gets me through the night. Naturally, this is not going to work for everyone, but please remember that Hall and Oates have a huge library of unsexy pop songs so there is an enormous wealth of material for your own use as ejaculatory avoidance. And, while I still have no foolproof method of postponing the inevitable Big Bam Boom, I am trying my best, and I'm still open to suggestions. And please, if you have any, make them quick; this tourniquet is starting to make me dizzy.




in the junk drawer:

September 1997
August 1997
July 1997
June 1997
May 1997
April 1997
March 1997
February 1997
January 1997

and such
and such

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