Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: separation (page 1 of 3)

Irreconcilable Differences

On the night before BlogHer, Sophia and I filled out the paperwork.  There were four forms to complete.   It was more complicated than I thought, forgetting for a moment that filing for divorce is a serious legal matter and not an episode of “The Marriage Ref.”  The moment was friendly, but tense, not unlike the times we attempted to complete the NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle together.

Filing for divorce.   We peeked into my blog archives and discovered that we have been “separated” for six years, coming back and leaving each other more times than Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.  It was time.

We enjoyed a quick nice laugh when we came across the options you could choose as the reason for the divorce —

A) Irreconsolible differences.

B) Reasons of insanity.

Yes, I want a divorce because my SPOUSE IS CRAZY!

The next day, I put my luggage in the car, ready to go to San Diego.  But before I left LA, I drove to the courthouse.  I stood in a long line outside the court, hanging with my peers, the gang members and rapists of the City of Los Angeles.  Apparently, getting a divorce puts you in the same line as an armed robber.    I got patted down by a burly police officer after going through the metal detective, proving that ending a marriage requires a symbolic ceremony as traditional as breaking the glass under the chuppah in the beginning.

The clerk at civil court clerk’s office was an androgynous woman with short blonde hair in the style of Annie Lenox, circa 1985.  Filing for divorce is as glamorous as going to CVS pharmacy to pick up some Q-tips.  I handed the clerk the forms and paid my $390.

The only setback was that I couldn’t hand in Sophia’s papers on the same day as I did mine.  She had to be “served” by a third party, much as they do on “Law and Order.” Oh yeah, and another $390.  You would think with such a high divorce rate in California, the state wouldn’t be bankrupt.

I left the court feeling good.   The process was only half completed, so the full impact of the action hadn’t yet hit.  Why worry? I wasn’t officially filed yet.  Or divorced.  If a meteor slammed into earth that day, I would die a married man.

I enjoyed BlogHer, only mentioning the filing for divorce with a few close friends.  It didn’t seem appropriate to make a public announcement during the Keynote Speech.

When I returned from San Diego, we asked a friend to “serve” Sophia, so the process would all be official.   It was felt rather silly, as if we were playing Charades.  So “legal.”   The legal divorce was less a concern than the emotional fallout.  We had gone through a lot during our marriage — happiness, sex, laughter, anger, stress, illness, and the death of three of our parents. Clearly there was a bond. We gave it a good shot — six years after the initial separation — but we had changed over the years.  We didn’t fit together anymore.   We had become brother and sister, not husband and wife. And that is no way to live your life.

On Monday morning, we had breakfast.   Sophia asked me to go to recycling center on the way back from the court, proving that a husband’s chores never end, even to the final moment.  There was a huge collection of soda and beer bottles sitting in the garage. My first instinct was to ask her why she didn’t do this herself, but I shut myself up.   Why go there?  It was the petty little snips that had done the most harm over the years.

“Sure,” I said to my wife, the person I shared so much with for so many years. “I’ll bring in the recycling stuff after I go to the court.”

I returned to court, waiting in line with a new set of gang-bangers.  The androgynous court clerk was absent, which made me sad.  I was hoping for the comfort of repetition.

The new clerk was a smiling black woman in a bright red dress. She smiled as she took Sophia’s response form and charged me another $390 dollars.

She stamped the form, and it was done.   I hoped for an uplifting good-bye, something like, “That’s it! Have a great rest of your life filled with love and happiness.”

But no.

“Next!” she announced.

I went to the car. I was feeling pretty good, even relieved.  I could now go on with the rest my life.   Even date other women!

It was time.

And then I threw up on the parking lot floor.

After that, I drove over to deliver the cans and bottles to the recycling center.

In the Limo

“Do we tip the driver?” I asked Sophia. We were in the backseat of a limo, part of the fleet from one of the most famous of Los Angeles livery services.

“I’m not sure. I suppose so.” she answered, sipping her champagne. “We certainly don’t want to be called cheap for the next six years, like we have been on that old post about splitting a salad at Olive Garden.”

We both laughed, and ate more of the caviar, included with our VIP package.   I still get angry comments on that post at least once a week from waiters at Olive Garden, calling us cheapskates.  Even at our lowest points in our marriage, Sophia and I could take a breather to read the latest bitter response to the post and chuckle together.  It was our form of marital therapy.

“It’s my favorite post,” I said.

“Me too.”

We were relaxing in the limo, dressed in our finest clothes.  I was wearing a rented tuxedo. Sophia wore a pearl necklace. The idea was to feel like a modern-day Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, on our way to the court to file our paperwork for divorce.  We were sophisticated, urbane, shelling out the witticisms like in a Noel Coward play.

Wait a minute.  Didn’t we file for divorce already? If you remember last season in this long-going series, I left town to go to New York City. Final shot: The signed paperwork sitting on the coffee table as I closed the door in the background.

New season.   Surprise.  It was all a trick, as clever a gimmick as finding out on “Dallas” that it was all a dream.

Somehow the paperwork got lost or misplaced so we need to do it all over again.   What I will do just for blog fodder.

But it is all good.   Better to file the papers in STYLE, like we always wanted to do. We would go to court via limo, and then head out to a swanky nightclub for 300 of our closest friends for the ultimate LA party of the year.

“Would you enjoy some music while you relax in the back?” asked the livery driver.

“Sure,” said Sophia.

The driver played some Barry White, which somehow seemed so wrong that it was right.

But the low sultry voice of Barry White was quickly drowned out as we approached the downtown courthouse. Waiting for us on the steps was the full USC Trojan Marching band playing our wedding song.  It cost me a fortune to rent them.

Sophia laughed.

“Perfect, Neil.  This is going to be the best filing for divorce in the history of Divorce!”

“I made an appointment so we don’t have to wait.” I mentioned to Sophia.  “All we have to do is hand the piece of paper in, pay a fee, and the process has started.”

“I’m sure your blog readers will be relieved,” she added.  “This neurotic plotline has been going on for so long. It’s time for a new story twist.”

We had it all arranged, as precisely as a movie heist.   We would approach the clerk in the courthouse.   I would hold the right side of the filing paper, and Sophia the left side —  and hand it in together.  Like a team!

Because marriage is all about teamwork.

“Do you have the paperwork?”  asked Sophia.

“I think you put it in your purse.”

“No. You said you were going to take it yourself.”

“Not true.   I distinctly remember asking YOU if I should take it, and YOU said that YOU would put it in your purse so I wouldn’t have to fold it in eights in order to put into my shirt pocket.”

“Why would I care if you folded it in eights or not?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe because you are a perfectionist.  That’s what you said!”

The limo was parked directly in front of the downtown Los Angeles court.  The USC Trojan marching band was playing our wedding song, our first dance, for the fifth time in a row.  The livery driver was getting impatient.

“We can always get another piece of paper in the courthouse.” I suggested.

“And wait in line again? No way!  Why don’t you just come back tomorrow and hand it in yourself.”

“Because we are supposed to be doing this together.”

“Stop being so co-dependent.”

“We’re a team!  A team to the end.  Like the USC Trojans   Even though we are separated for years!”

“How can we be a team if you are always forgetting the paperwork back at home. So irresponsible?”

“Me? Irresponsible? This whole thing would be over by now if you had just handed it in a year ago like you were supposed to do!”

“F*ck it.” said Sophia. “Let’s just do this another day. I’m walking over to Chinatown and having some lunch.”

“OK, I’m hungry too.   But I’m doing this by next week.”

Sophia and I left the limo, the marching band repeating the refrain of Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen, our wedding song.  I guess I would have to pay them overtime, just like I did the swing band at the wedding reception.   As we walked to Chinatown, we gently stepped to the music, still remembering the swing dance lessons we took before the wedding, so many years before.

The limo driver rolled down his window and spit on the floor.

“Assholes,” he snarled. “They didn’t even tip me.  Cheapskates.”

Truth Quotient — 2%

Rock Bottom: The Trainwreck Post


Splat.  I hit the cold hard bottom.  Since returning from my visit with my mother and Sophia down in Florida, I have fallen apart.  My anxiety level is at an all time high.  All the strands of my life are converging — my marriage, my mother returning to Queens in two weeks, work concerns that pit living in NYC with moving back to LA.

I can’t live like this anymore.  I need to have a home AND a somewhat normal existence.

I need to have a wife that I either live with, or NOT be married to her.  I need to love someone and be loved.  I need to focus on my writing, on my career, on money, and on life.

I need to be able to feel up a woman before I go to sleep, or why else continue living?

All I’ve done for the last few days is go on Twitter and argue with people about Twitter.

I just took a Prozac.  I’m a little concerned on the Prozac’s effect on my Penis, but so far, it hasn’t fallen off.

First time, no comments.

The Sexy Email Exchange

Hi, this is Neil’s Talking Penis.  Remember when I used to post ALL the time on “Citizen of the Month?”  You haven’t heard from me in quite a while.   Why?   Well, frankly, there has been nothing to report.  Unlike Neilochka, who likes to hear himself talk, I only speak when I have something to say.

Another reason is that Neilochka has been infringing on my free speech.  He hated all the attention I got back in the good ol’ blogging days, when he was mostly known as “the guy who wrote the Talking Penis blog.”  Now he wants to be more “sophisticated,” like the classy bloggers who get book deals.  He doesn’t realize that the only freakin’ book deal that he’s ever gonna get is a book about ME!

Neurotic Jewish guy from New York — BORING! Seen it, done it, read it — snore!   But — Opinionated hard-on with a knowledge of the Kama Sutra, fine wines, and 80’s music? Now that is a best-seller!

Today, I have returned to the Blogosphere to complain about Neilochka.  He does not deserve to have me.  It is like serving the finest steak to an anorexic vegetarian.  It is like buying shoes for someone with no legs.  It is like writing a comment on Dooce’s blog, expecting one in return.

So, sit back, grab a Diet Coke, and let me tell my tale of how pathetic Neilochka can be:

Last week, Neilochka received an email from a nice, very attractive, intelligent, single girl in her thirties who lived in another part of the country.  She was a blogger who he had only read infrequently.  She knew about his frustrations living away from Sophia.  She also had her own frustrations.  She had recently broken up with her boyfriend.  In a polite manner, she suggested a remedy —

“…how would you like to send “sexy” emails to each other? Believe me, I have never done this before. I hope you are not offended. It would be fine if you said no. I just thought it would both do us some good… and it might be fun.”

Neilochka stared at the monitor for a long, long time.  He had never received an email like this, other than spam trying to sell him Viagra.  Neilochka has emailed and IM-ed with many female bloggers, but usually it about them complaining about their boyfriends and husbands, not wanting virtual sex talk.

Neilochka went to this girl’s blog and read a few posts. She seemed totally normal.

I screamed to Neilochka from inside his pants.

“Do it! Do it! For god’s sake, do it!  It is better than me sitting around her doing nothing but playing Sudoko with myself!”

Neilochka, as expected from a man who never takes action without mulling over it for ever, took forever to take a baby step.  He emailed the girl back.

“Hi, there!  Thanks for the email.  I am very flattered.  And it is very brave of you to be so assertive, especially for a woman.  I think it is really cool…”

And then he blabbed on some more, ass-kissing her and comparing her to what he loved so much about Sophia, exactly the wrong thing to be saying to a horny babe who obviously wants some sex talk.

She emailed back, saying that she loved his blog.  That was very clever on her part, as every guy loves to have his ego stroked.

But Neilochka, still with his head in his ass, emailed back, saying that he’s not sure he is the “right person to be doing this with.”

“I mean even though I’m separated, I’m still technically married, even though I am living apart, but I still…oh, I don’t know…”

After I bit Neilochka on the leg, he quickly changed his mind —

“Why not — let’s give it a shot!”

I did a little happy dance in his pants.

Now from my experience, women like a confident man in the bedroom.  It is like ballroom dancing — there are times where the man should lead.  Every romance novel has a man carrying his woman into the bedroom, sometimes even against her will.

“You brute!”

But then he kisses her, and she changes her mind, as quickly as Joe Lieberman changes political parties.

“Take me now, you hunk of manhood!”

Sadly, Neilochka is not that kind of man.  Ask Sophia.  Wait, forget that. Do NOT ask her.

Neilochka worries too much.  About making everyone happy.  If he was smart he would just worry about satisfying one person — me!

So, instead of Neilochka writing back —

“I am so hot thinking about you, I can’t wait any longer.  I want you.  I am ripping open your blouse – I don’t care how much it cost at Nordstrom — my hands NEED to explore your every curve…”

He wrote back a lame, flaccid message —

“So, what do we do now? Are there some… like… rules?”

You ever hear a Penis sigh like Charlie Brown.  Good Grief.

Neilochka waited for the return email.  She finally wrote back:

“Rules? Well, I am reading over the rulebook now, peering over the top of the book with my librarian glasses.”

Neilochka was impressed.  She used the word “peering” which is a cool word.  And he always had a thing for those sexy librarian types, who pull down their hair.  Neilochka decided he should show the girl that they were relating well —

“We have a lot in common! I wear glasses too!”

WTF?! A minute later, there was an email response.  The mood had changed.

“I just wanted to tell you, so you’re not disappointed later, but I really don’t wear glasses.”

Neilochka appreciated her honesty.

“That’s OK.  You have virtual glasses!  Cheaper that way.  Glasses are so expensive nowadays. Guess how much my glasses cost?”

Her response —


Neilochka’s response — (It was turning into a game show)

“No, almost $600. I have astigmatism so I had to get these superlight lenses from Germany.”

Neilochka and the girl exchanged a few more emails about the eyeglasses.

I was going crazy.

“Forget the optometry talk!  Talk about her tits.  Say you want to stick your face in her p***y!  She wants to get virtually f**ked, not talk about Lenscrafters!”

I tried to remind Neilochka to keep his eye on the prize, and not to let this unique opportunity fall off a loser’s cliff.

And then, IT HAPPENED.

It was 6PM. Neilochka’s mother called from the kitchen.

“Neil? You want dinner?”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, at this point Neilochka sent this hot and horny girl the ultimate sex-killing email — a statement that should be written on his tombstone as a warning to future generations of men —

“My mother is calling me for dinner. Gotta go!”

“OK. Later!”

Three days passed until Neilochka remembered about the emails.  Three days!  Let me just repeat it to you to show you how pathetic this is — Some intelligent, hot babe WANTS to send horny emails back and forth with a man — even initiates it — and praises his lame-ass blog — and she tells him that HE TURNS HER ON — and he actually FORGETS about it for three days?!

You would think after this utter disaster that Neilochka would say “I’m sorry” TO ME?!  But no!

He thinks about the girl.

“Should I apologize to her?” he asks himself.  “It wasn’t that I wasn’t attracted to her.  Well, actually that WAS the problem.  I wasn’t really attracted to some person I hardly know. Maybe if we IM-ed for a couple of months –”

Oh yeah.  Cool Hand Neilochka.  Maybe if they IM-ed for a couple of months, and then exchanged photos, and then spoke on the phone, and then sent Christmas-Hanukkah cards, and then went to the movies a couple of times, and then watched “Dancing with the Stars” at night, laughing at Susan Lucci, and then kissed under the stars during a fireworks display–


Yesterday, Neilochka emailed the girl.  They both laughed about the sexy email exchange.  They both thought it was their fault that it was so short-lived.  He did ask if she was wearing a bra, but that was as far as the sex-talk went.  She wasn’t.

And then, of course, Neil asked the most important question of all:

“If I don’t use your name, can I, uh… blog about this?”

How We Are Doing

Many of you have emailed lately asking, “How are you and Sophia doing being apart?”   I am so glad that you asked.   Although being apart is difficult, it also gives us the opportunity for change — so both of us jumped on the express train to personal transformation.

Sophia has decided to go “LA” blond.

I have decided to become a “NY” raving lunatic who drools all over himself in the subway.

Sophia Says “Hi”

I do miss her.  Even if being apart is the best route.  I enjoy my “freedom,” but it can get lonely.  I enjoy looking at everyone’s BlogHer cleavage on Flickr, but it isn’t the same as touching the warmth and softness of the woman you love.  Only when there is love, does the energy flow into your hands from the female  bosom, making your blood dance wildly and your soul as bright as the sun.

Sophia sends regards, and photos.  She’s lost 15 pounds, a combination of wii-fit and a lack of stress.

Alas, Jet Airliner to NY

New Chapter

As I begin this new chapter in my life, I promise to be honest and open with you, hiding nothing, although I will leave it to your imagination to figure out if I am wearing pants or not.

One Month in NY?

This week, my posts will be piss poor.   I may just skip days.  Hey, it’s just a blog. 

Why am I being such a downer about the quality of Citizen of the Month?  I’m always so good with my blog — I hardly missed a beat in three years.

The answer is — I’m currently in the process of running away from my life. 

Just for a while. Nothing dramatic.  No drugs or alcohol.  Maybe a little Manishevitz now and then, since I will be staying with my mother.   Actually, she likes Kahlua, because it is as sweet as Manishevitz.  Maybe I’ll learn to make some cocktails for us!

I just bought a one-way ticket to New York.  It’s for next Monday.  Oh, sure — I’m coming back.  Don’t worry, dear Californians.   I’m hoping to make money on this screenplay I’m working on.  Besides, New Yorkers are a bunch of snooty jerks.  But it’s my childhood home.   What can I do? I was born there.

I probably will stay for a month.  I figure I’ll buy another one-way ticket back to Los Angeles when I’m ready to return to the real world and start my new life.  This may screw up my BlogHer plans.

There are several reasons for going.  I will avoid having to move to another apartment in Los Angeles… just yet.  With Sophia’s rent going up next month, we need to figure out the best way of paying for everything.  Sophia and I agree that we can both “think” better if we’re apart for a month — 3000 miles apart.  I will be able to finish the first draft of this award-winning sex comedy screenplay.  I will celebrate my late father’s birthday on June 19th.  I will see friends.  And most importantly, I will eat pizza that doesn’t contain pineapple.

I don’t make rash decisions, but I saw the ticket to NY online, and whoosh — I bought it.  It was difficult to find an inexpensive one-way ticket, so I have to switch planes in Salt Lake City.  I’ll be there for at least an hour, so this would be a great opportunity for Heather and I to  grab a cup of coffee together at the airport. 

Darn it, I promised that I wouldn’t make anymore Dooce jokes.   Sophia is right.  I don’t keep to my promises.

Earlier today, Sophia presented me with a list of “must-dos” before I leave next week.  She is nervous about me leaving.  When she started showed me the list, it was like one of those documents that unravel and roll down the steps, a royal declaration of chores. 

Who is going to set up the wii fit?  What if I get a computer virus?  Where is the fan in the garage?  Who is going to massage my leg when it cramps?

I understand all these needs.  I have plenty of them myself.  One of our main problems is that we are at the point in our relationship where we “need” each other more than we “give.”  I’m saying that about BOTH of us.

We’re so different than when we married over ten years ago.  I think I’ve changed even more than her, because I was a total nudnik back then, someone lucky enough to catch such a hottie.  What did she see in me?  I have no idea. 

Years later, we are both stronger.  I feel more competent and manly than I did before meeting Sophia.  But we’re also become weaker in many ways.  We depend on each other too much — even for our own happiness.  It doesn’t make things easier.  If you think meeting Mr. and Mrs. Right is a pain in the ass, it is absolutely FUN compared to the confusion of the same couple separating, something we have been doing… forever…

I’m curious what Brenda, my therapist, will say about me skipping town for a month.  Is it irresponsible?  What will I do for money?  Am I avoiding life?    I’m wondering if I should still have therapy with her via phone once a week?  It probably isn’t as effective.  Or fun — I wouldn’t be able to look at her shapely legs in those cute summer dresses that she wears!   I could ask her — over the phone — if she’s wearing a dress that day, and what type of shoes. but I think that may be inappropiate.  Don’t you think?

Saturday, May 24th


In the morning, I went to see an apartment that is being rented.  This is a big step for me.  I’ve been telling you that I’m moving out for… about six months now.   To make the whole situation more pathetic, Sophia (my separated wife, for newcomers) came with me to check out the place!  Before you make the comparison of mommy accompanying her child on her first day of school, I will do it FOR you. I was nervous about seeing this rental.  I found it on Craig’s List.

“Why is it so… inexpensive?” I asked myself.  “Is the economy this bad?” 

The reason…? Let’s just say that the neighborhood was so-so, and the apartment manager seemed to have a side job running a meth lab.  New theory:  It is OK to use a coupon at Olive Garden, but not in apartment hunting.   Even Sophia hated the place.

New vague plan:  Go to NY and visit my real MOMMY for a few weeks and finish this screenplay, then come back and find an apartment.   I know… procrastination.  Brenda, my therapist, is going to give me one of her “looks” this week.


As I’ve mentioned to some of you, I’ve started to work on this screenplay project with another writer.  It was a long process of pitching and coming up with ideas.  While nothing is certain,  there is some interest, and I’m hoping to make some real money this year, not just the fake dollars that you can use on Second Life.  Then again… Hollywood is a risky place until the money is paid.

It is not easy working with another writer.  It is like a marriage.  It takes some time.  The other writer and I split up the work load.  I’m writing some of the scenes involving the major female characters.  I opened my mouth and said that “I understand women,” when in reality, this is an obvious lie.  Belinda from Ninja Poodles told me to read Stephen King. 

“He writes excellent female characters!” she said. 

Wht do you think?  Do you think most male writers do a poor job in creating female characters?  I don’t know about you, but I found it completely believable that the Sharon Stone character wore no underwear during that police interrogation in “Basic Instinct.”

Speaking of sex-starved screenwriters, I tried to write a scene on Saturday afternoon while shopping at Target.  Target is my new pharmacist, mostly because they give you the pills in these hip red plastic containers.  I went to Target to pick up my cholesterol medicine (and some paper towels).  This time, I travelled without Sophia holding my hand.  After walking the aisles of products of artists and architects who sold out to the Target Man, and drooling over this cool red Michael Graves toaster, I decided to have a cup of coffee in “the cafe.” 

Our new Target is a rather fancy one.  The parking and the “courtyard” are on the first floor.  The “cafe” is on the second floor and looks out over the courtyard.  I use the term “cafe” loosely.  They sell hot dogs, popcorn, and Pizza Hut slices.  However, a tiny Starbucks franchise is attached to the side, and the atmosphere is light and friendly.  I ordered my “tall” coffee, sat down with my Target bag, and decided to write a scene in the trusty black-and-white-covered composition notebook that I always lug around in case inspiration hits.

Being a New Yorker, noise and chaos is usually calming.  I have no problem writing when there is activity going on.  I just couldn’t focus in Target.  Some bratty kids were playing with the ice machine and the open mustard package sitting on the plastic chair adjacent to me was bugging me.

I decided to take a breather.  I walked over to the railing and looked down into the courtyard.  Customers were flooding in and out, some wheeled shopping cars, others with children in tow.  The majority were women… mothers.  Not surprisingly, my second floor position gave me a pretty good view of the finest cleavage that Redondo Beach had to offer.  I could look right down the tops of women’s blouses.  Hello, mothers!  Some thin, some buxom, some size 2, some size 16, some in tight dresses, some in low cut blouses.  I completely forgot about my screenplay and just enjoyed the view.  This was better than looking down at the Grand Canyon.  So many women!  I glanced up and noticed that there was a video camera.  Big Brother was watching.  This changed everything. 

“Is anyone watching me?” I wondered.   “I must look like a total pervert!”

I certainly felt like a total pervert, especially when I realized that my Target shopping experience had aroused me to the point where I had to sit and wait another twenty minutes until I could leave.

What would my mother think if she saw me on the nightly news, arrested and dragged from the Redondo Beach Target “cafe,” still aroused from looking down the blouses of mothers shopping for Pampers for their children! 

Tonight on America’s Most Wanted

“Redondo Beach is a sleepy town on the coast near Los Angeles.  It is a family-oriented town where children go to church and everyone is polite.  But every community has their bad apples, the underbelly and perverts who walk the street.  One of the favorite Saturday activities in this pleasant beach community’s is for mothers and their children to go to the local Target for some fun, relaxation, and shopping.  Little do the unsuspecting mothers know, that in the cafe, is Neilochka Kramer, the lowest form of pervert, ogling women like  one-dimensional sex objects when he is supposed to be writing realistic female characters. “


Sophia got her Wii fit delivered.  I said I would connect it and figure out how to use it, but I did the laundry instead.  I was feeling passive-aggressive.  Why are we getting a Wii JUST as I’m about to move out?

At 2AM, I turned on Showtime.  There was some soft-core movie.  I have no idea what it was about, but I watched a scene where  a sexy woman in high heels (male screenwriters again!) comes into a bar/restaurant, asks the bartender to show her to the women’s room, and then the two have sex in the cleanest and well-organized restaurant kitchen in existence.  

The minute the situation became “hot” and the woman stripped down to her bra, some annoying jazz music started to play on the soundtrack.  It made me wonder what would happen if sex really caused this John Tesh-like music to play in our minds.  Would I become impotent?  I think I would rather BE impotent than have to endure this same music every time my pants came off.  I certainly would want the sex to be over VERY QUICKLY just to stop the music.  On the positive side, women would want it over fast, too. 

“Come on.  Stick it in and get it over with already!  Just make this third-rate jazz music stop!”

This was my Saturday, May 24th.

Two Years Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Driving in LA – In Two Parts

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