Occurred October-November 2009; Written January 2010. Part 1 of 2.
This true-life story of a hero is at sometimes crass, chauvinistic, and filled with sexual content. If you find it disturbing to imagine me naked and copulating in a field of wheat while shooting off fireworks, you should stop reading this immediately.
I have not always been so caring and empathetic towards women. There were times that I may have lied for sex: I’m rich. Look at my hands; they’re HUGE (as I hold up my hand stuffed inside a giant prosthetic hand)! I really like you, there’s a future here. You’re nothing like your mother. No, the smell doesn’t bother me.
In college, I was a bit of a social scientist specializing in male-female sexual behavior. As someone who wasn’t getting any on a regular basis, I felt qualified to postulate on the behavior of all men when put in a sexual situation.
On one particular evening, while hanging out with friends, I took a massive bong hit and was overcome by a coughing fit and the sudden realization that: 1) I should learn to play the guitar because I’m an artist at heart, and 2) the Theory of Non-Resistance.
The theory was so simple. It was true for me, so it must be true for all men. The Theory of Non-Resistance states that no single man can resist an offer of sex from a woman who performs the following steps simultaneously.
1. She looks into your eyes and says, “I want to f**k you.”
2. She grabs your wiener.
A man confronted with this scenario is unable to say no. If a woman in a bar said to you, “I wana do you,” you might not believe her. It could be a cruel joke and all of her friends are hiding somewhere, listening and barely able to control their laughter.
Or if she just grabbed your wiener, you might be intrigued, but you would also fear for your safety. However, if a woman performs both steps, you cannot resist. It’s science.
This is the Theory of Non-Resistance; and this is my tale of scientific field work testing the Theory.
It’s impossible to tell this story without traveling back in time. My ex, Shannon, and I recently broke up for the eighth and final time, 6 months after our initial breakup. It’s been rough for me, but almost as rough for my friends who have listened to hours and hours over the months of a grown man whining about how she was “the one” even though we made each other miserable.
After thoroughly exhausting the friend card and still filled with grief, I turned to mom and dad. Mom was kind and sympathetic. She reminded me that I’m a great guy and any woman would be lucky to have me. She also pointed out the many faults of my former lady and how someday I would meet someone even better.
This is what moms are supposed to say. It’s written in the Mommy Manual, page 127, paragraph 2. My mother is the one you go to with problems of heartache, rejection, and insecurities. My father was never one to pine on about emotions, so I was interested in what he had to say. After all, my parents are divorced and figured I could benefit from a man’s perspective coping with the loss of a relationship. I emailed my father and spoke with him as well. He listened and nodded his head at the appropriate times.
Weeks later, after our 6th, 7th or perhaps 8th breakup, my father sent me an email. The email was short, only one sentence; “Sounds to me like you have TSB.”
Hmm, what’s TSB? I had never heard of it. I was intrigued. Is this the form of depression my father suffered from after the divorce? Are there anti-depressants available for it? Should I see a therapist? Should I do both?
The email was brief, but I needed more information. Regardless, I was pleased that my father took several weeks to think of all the emotions and hard times I was going through, do a little medical research, and then send me the name of this rare form of mental illness. Perhaps my father was someone I could go to after all for emotional and not just career advice.
I did a Google search for TSB. Scrolling down the list of choices wasn’t promising: a British bank, the Transportation Safety Board of Canada, and technical search bulletins. I decided to contact my doctor, WebMd.com. I typed in the acronym and was ready to receive vague information and a list of sponsored prescriptions that were sure to cure me. Hmm, nothing on WebMd either. Strange, perhaps this condition was even rarer than I originally thought.
I emailed my dad, “What’s TSB?” Our emails are usually about that long. We cut away the mush and stay on point. I waited anxiously for his reply. I contacted my therapist and told her I needed to make an emergency appointment to discuss the possibility that I had TSB.
A few hours later, my Inbox lit up with a new message from Dad. The moment of truth; what was TSB? What if there was no cure? Would people consider me a hero? Could I write a book about it and get on Oprah? Could I do it with Oprah?
I clicked on it quickly and scrolled down. The email, like the one before it, was one sentence; “TSB = Toxic Sperm Buildup.”
I was dazed. Perhaps even a little confused. What did sperm have to do with anything? Was there a correlation between sperm buildup and emotional distress? I thought on it for several moments and then it hit me.
My dad’s a comedian; a real funny guy. He was mocking me for not getting laid in months and perhaps the best cure for my woes was a certain part of the female anatomy.
I wrote him back another on-point email, “Hardy-har-har, funny man.”
**Author’s side note–sorry there wasn’t any copulating in a wheat field while shooting off fireworks. Maybe in the sequel.**