Hollywood Ending

I feel good. I recently got a massage. The funny thing about getting a massage in L.A. is that, if you tell someone you just had a massage, they always ask you the same thing:

"Did you get a happy ending?"

Happy ending! Every minute, with the happy ending! It's soooo Hollywood -- everything has to have a happy ending. I'm not a huge fan of the happy ending with a massage, frankly. It's too predictable. Whatever happened to the wry, ironic ending? The make-you-think ending, huh? The haunts-you-for-days-afterward twist ending...

(Maybe I should have M. Night Shyamalan direct my next massage.)

Another question you always get asked -- guys, you'll relate to this; girls, you may wanna... I don't know, text message your friends or something. But, guys, how many times has this happened to you? You're telling your friends about this girl you hooked up with, and you mention that you got a blowjob. Someone in the group (because every group of guys has one of these guys) is sure to chime in with this oft-repeated, time-honoured query:

"Did she swallow?"

They're very serious about it, these guys. "She better swallow. Bitch better fuckin' swallow..."

These are the same guys who slide cleats-up into an unprotected catcher in a friendly, utterly inconsequential game of softball. They're fired up -- as if, somehow, her refusal to ingest his seed is an indictment against his suitability as a sexual being.

I never really got caught up in this whole notion. I never care if a girl swallows or not. The way I look at it, my jizz is like... it's like a wounded falcon, that I've nursed back to health. And my only hope, my only wish, my only dream, is to one day release it into the world. Set it free. I don't care where it goes.

And if I'm being perfectly honest, roughly 90% of the orgasms I've had in my life have ended in a sock, anyway, so it seems a little disingenuous to start being picky about where stuff winds up.

I was living with a girl once, and she discovered my shameful pile of soiled, discarded socks behind the couch. (This was back in the days when I watched porn on the TV, before I had a laptop.)

But she didn't just come right out with it and confront me. Oh, no. Suddenly she was Mariska Hargitay from Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (an actress whose name sounds to me like Pig Latin for "target," but I digress).

Her plan was to back into the whole thing, and not let on that she had the damning evidence up her sleeve. She played it cool, good-copping me to get me to let my guard down.

HER: "Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

ME: "No thanks. What is this about?"

HER: "Well, I've been thinking about your sworn statement from the other day..."

ME: "Sworn statement?"

HER: "And something about it's been bugging me. So I wanted to ask you a couple questions."

ME: "Okay..."

HER: "Remember the other day, when you were complaining that you couldn't find any clean socks to wear?"

ME: "Um, that sounds like something I would say, I guess."

HER: "You guess? I can read it back to you if you--"

ME: "Fine, I said it."

HER: "What do you suppose happened to those socks, Arik? I mean, how do you explain them just... disappearing?"

ME: "I don't know... Maybe it's like Jerry Seinfeld said, and they escape from the dryer one at a time."

HER: "Come on. You don't really expect me to believe that, do you!?"

ME: (very confused) "What's going on here?"

Just then, she produces a lawn-size trash bag stuffed full of stiff, crusty socks, and plops it down on the table in front of me.

HER: "Perhaps you'd like to tell me about THIS!"

ME: (breaking down) "Okay! All right! I did it! And I'd do it again!!!"

And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for those darn socks...

She got all indignant at this point, "I'm not going to wash those! That's disgusting! I'm throwing them out!"

I was backed into a corner, and I knew it. I wasn't going to be able to appeal to her emotions; she was too wound up. I was going to have to attack this from a practical vantage point. I was going to have to appeal to her logical mind, and make a well-reasoned case, if I hoped to defuse this situation. I'm a problem-solver by nature. This should be easy.

"What are you talking about?" I started. "I came on your face, and you washed that!"

In response to this, as you can probably imagine, she walked away, so I'm not entirely sure she heard what I said next, but I'll share it with you kids at home, anyway:

"We didn't throw out your tits after I came on them!"

...


Yeah, I miss that girl. Still not sure why things didn't work out between us.