sex and the summer

Falling in love in the summertime. Falling in love with the summer time. Those are your two options when it becomes summertime and all you really want is love to take the lead and bring you to its dark lair and punish you with its love and attention. Not to mention the whips and chains. For me I had this thought about the meaning of love one morning when I looked up and I saw that the happiest people have found love for the summer. They’re either skinny dipping and making love with the lake and the summer night or they're going out to a nice dinner, ordering the pork chops and making love with the person sitting across from them regardless of how bloated the pork chops have made them. If I feel bloated I go on house arrest for 3 days until I’m able to stand up straight again. Is all this love stuff overrated? I have spent so much time thinking these scenes we see in movies are just a ploy to distract us into wanting something that will get us off the Government’s trail. Why do I feel the need to even capitalize “Government"? I don’t really fucking care about any of this. This is a round and about way to say that I want to have sex soon. Famous last words, though. Getting someone to have sex with you is as easy as choosing fries as the side to your buerger when the server asks if you would like salad or fries. “I’m not brain dead am I”? “Are the fries made out of cat hair”? “Either way I’ll take the fries. Get out of my face before I set this whole place on fire”! “Do you want to have sex with me for money”?! But going from “I want to have sex” all the way to: he's in my bed and he's practically scalping me as he pushes and pulles my head up and down his below average package, is a journey that begs for disappointment. I remember when I was in 5th grade and doing the sexual education unit in science class. We were brought into a room with the math teacher and he taught us the mathematical equation behind porn being worlds better than actual sex. At this point I had watched practically 11 seasons worth of porn, studying the ways in which they lick and physically show their appreciation for one another’s limbs and roast beef sandwiches. I had no reason to believe that the real thing would be anything less than a disappointment. But the math lesson on Pronography being greater than or equal to penile penetration, echoed through my brain the first time I had sex. I just saw my 5th grade math teacher saying over and over again how disappointing sex is with his wife who eventually sent him to jail for domestic abuse. Being with a man and only thinking about your math teacher, who looked like Edna Mode, set me up so that failure was my only option. The man I had first entered my life in the summer going into my junior year of college. I certainly took my time finding him, thinking my first sexual encounter would be like a beef stew and only develop more and more flavor with time. It was more like beef tenderloin left on the grill, scorching for 5 years leaving nothing but ashes and black smoke. I met this man in class. The biggest learning moment from this class was what happens when you take home someone whose furry, part baby. What I mean by that is his outlook on the world was that of a child, whose brain had rotted from the colorful images and small waists from anime. Additionally, if he wanted to send it and become a furry, he had the option of just dying the fur already covering every square inch of his body. I was coughing up black currlies for weeks after he left. I had no frame of reference, but the sex was short and mediocre like what he carried in his pants. It could have been worse. He could have been like the sexual partners I had after him who left me with venereal diseases that would fill out a bingo card. It was the first of many disappointing sexual encounters with men. So this summer I am going to work day and night to get my 5th grade math teacher and all other forces from the universe that tell me nothing will ever be better than porn, out of my head so that I can give head with a smile wide and gaping!. I will make love this summer if it kills me. Let's say it does kill me. I get a new undiscovered disease from sex that turns me into a Rhino. Let's say that I make love in the blistering summer heat and I fry up like a well done beef patty and I die from my crisp edges. I want everyone to know that I did have sex. That these past dry spells have been the choice I have taken to keep from dying, but now I am willing to cross the threshold and investigate why so many people have boyfriends or dating apps downloaded on their phone. Am I missing out? Probably not, and maybe I die, but at least I will do so as a way to further the government’s mysterious plan that will eventually send dust storms to kill us all. Summer, show me the way!