The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday

by Neil McKinnon

  She smiled and we both lapsed into silence. I noticed my heart beating in an irregular way and the patio seemed to light up, making the sky flat and dark. Brambly shadows darted forward and licked my feet. I felt a weird expectancy but the silence became awkward and I left for home. Later, I thought of our conversation and it occurred to me that my life was richer and I was happier since Adriana had moved next door. At times, I even found her insults a satisfying alternative to the emptiness that would exist were she not my neighbour.

  A Lazy Busboy

  ADRIANA’S STORY ABOUT THE HUSBAND WHO demonstrated little skill in the erotic arts had brought back another memory. Notwithstanding her insults which have no tangible foundation and which owe their genesis to an unspoken acknowledgement that my life has been populated by an assortment of wonderful dalliances while hers has often foundered in the squalls one encounters on the high seas of matrimony, I admit there were times when my confidence trembled and when I contemplated removing myself from active participation in the game of love

  I am not an uneducated man and I know that it is possible for the gauge that measures the level in one’s testosterone tank to occasionally dip below the warning mark. Just as the best hitter in baseball will occasionally encounter a slump, so too is it possible for one of my skill, intelligence, prowess, drive, and acumen to experience periods of limp performance. My encounter with the sagging phenomena occurred years ago.

  Initially, I didn’t worry. I have an incredible imagination and memory, and I thought that by enlisting these two helpmates I would quickly solve my problem. Nude waitress at Don Emilio’s clad only in black stockings: nada. Large breasted neighbour bathing: nada. Girls’ locker room orgy: nada. Couple making love in lighted window: nada. My memory and imagination were not the parts on strike.

  The lady’s name was Monica and she didn’t understand that engine failure during the crucial lap on the mattress, like a jockey falling off a horse in the home stretch, is objectively an episode of minor import. However, like a perceived social slight, it may grow into a situation that demands corrective action if only to assuage one or both party’s mental uncertainty.

  To this end, after I had led my horse to Monica’s water trough a number of times without so much as getting it to take a small sip, I decided that if I was ever again to participate in the bedroom sweepstakes, I would have to engage a trainer who not only understood my particular mount but was also familiar with all aspects of the kingly sport.

  Accordingly, I made an appointment with Dr. Sofia Olivia Salazar, a renowned psychotherapist and love coach. Known to her patients as Dr. S.O.S., she was famous for charging huge fees for her treatments. She brushed a wandering strand of grey hair away from her eyes and gave me a wide smile as I entered her office. “Welcome. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s simple,” I replied. “My … My …” I could go no further. I, a man who takes pride in being completely open when it comes to any aspect of love, libido, physicality, or personality, could not speak of my problem, even to this trained professional. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t go on.” I stood and prepared to leave.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “I’ve encountered this reticence many times. There’s a simple solution. Sit down.”

  I did as she asked and watched as she removed a large pendant that hung around her neck. Then she stood, came around her desk and stopped in front of me. “Stare at the pendant and concentrate on my voice,” she said. The golden orb dispersed flashes of light as she swung it back and forth in front of my face. In a low soothing voice she began to chant,

  Do not fear what might transpire,

  I’m the best that you could hire.

  Do now tell what your visit means,

  It’s now or never, spill the beans.

  I felt myself becoming sleepy. Slowly her voice receded until it seemed to come from a great distance. “Now explain your problem,” she commanded. “Why have you come to see me?”

  I was suddenly charged with a great amount of courage. “It’s this way,” I explained. “My mental blueprint for love is un-smudged and therefore it is legible, but I am having difficulty turning the two dimensional plan into a multi-dimensional experience.”

  Dr. S.O.S. snapped her fingers and I awoke instantly. “It’s remarkable,” I exclaimed. “You induced my brain to function, unhindered by embarrassment or fear.”

  She nodded. “You suffer from a common affliction. During arousal and its aftermath, it’s normal for a man’s brain to go to sleep while the critical part of his anatomy springs into an alert state. Your condition occurs when the body mixes up the signals causing your brain to stay alert while the other part begins to snore. Your brain becomes agitated when it is unable to convince your slumbering busboy to become master of ceremonies. Treatment is easy — reverse the signals. You must come to my office every week for therapy. Eventually we will trick your body into rerouting the messages.”

  “How long will this treatment take?”

  “It depends. It could be lengthy if the situation is entrenched.”

  “And what will it cost?”

  “Again that depends. My skill is not inexpensive.”

  “Isn’t there some way we can shorten the duration and lower the cost?”

  “There is,” she admitted. “But I am hesitant to use it. I can teach you self-hypnosis. You will have to do exactly as I instruct.”

  “I promise. Let’s try it.”

  “Very well. I will plant a hypnotic suggestion in your brain using a mantra that, when quoted, will immediately activate the behaviour in the suggestion.” She snapped her fingers and instantly her voice again came from far away. “The mantra is to be recited only when faced with a critical bedroom situation. You are not to use it at any other time. I’ll make an appointment for you to see me in one month so that we can discuss your progress. Now follow the instructions in this ditty:

  Remember later what I’ve said,

  Put the thinking part to bed.

  Release this body from its strife,

  Make the flounder full of life.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Your appointment is over,” she said as she relieved my wallet of its contents. “Remember, when faced with your dilemma, simply repeat the phrases. Your problem will disappear as quickly as a sailor’s money in a cathouse. Now go home and enjoy the rest of your life.”

  My feet barely touched the ground as I left the doctor’s office. I hurried straight to Monica’s to share the good news.

  Adriana and I were enjoying a late evening libation. My glass was almost empty and I was aware that she had been itching to obstruct my story. I paused and poured each of us a fresh brandy.

  “Before you go on,” she said, “it is my opinion that you were misdiagnosed. I don’t believe there was a mix-up in the signals. Judging by what I already know, I doubt that there was ever a time when your brain was alert.”

  I returned to my chair.

  “Tell me,” she said, “Did the treatment work? It must have taken forever. Trying to repair any of your maladies would be like trying to restore the walls at Jericho.”

  I waited for silence. “You’re partly right, my mesmerizing madwoman. The treatment was less than successful. It didn’t work at all. A month later, seated in the doctor’s office, I was a very dispirited man.”

  “Welcome back,” Dr. S.O.S. said. “Have you won your battle? Is your love life improved? Have you recovered your upstanding ability?”

  “No, no, and no! If anything it’s worse. I still have the same affliction and now Monica thinks it’s permanent.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I’ve tried your prescription. It doesn’t work. I’m in the same situation as the last time we spoke.”

  “You must explain,” she said.

  “When I’m with Monica, everything progresses as it should until the critical point. Not once has your treatment been successful.”

  The doctor looked puzzled. “I don�
�t understand,” she said. “It’s worked in one-hundred percent of similar situations. Tell me exactly what you’re doing.”

  “I’m following your instructions.”

  She pushed a pad and pencil across her desk. “Write out the mantra for me.”

  “Very well, but I feel foolish.” I took the pencil and wrote,

  Remember later what I’ve said,

  Put the thinking part to bed.

  Release this body from its strife,

  Make the flounder full of life.

  She looked at the pad. “You have it correct. I don’t understand. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  “No, I just do what you instructed.”

  “Tell me exactly what you do.”

  “I recite your poem.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t have a pendant so I usually use a substitute.”

  “A substitute! What kind of substitute?”

  “Whatever is handy. Often I use my pocket watch. Last night I couldn’t find it so I used a string of frankfurters from the ice box.”

  “That must have been difficult — waving frankfurters in front of your eyes and repeating the mantra at the same time.”

  “Eyes! I didn’t wave them in front of my eyes! You swung the pendant where it was needed — in front of my mouth when I couldn’t speak. So, I did what you did. I dangled them where they were needed … where I dangle.”

  Dr. S.O.S. raised her eyebrows. “No wonder you still have a problem. You’re not to wave anything. I used a pendant only to hypnotize you that first time … when I gave you a trigger that would work post-hypnotically.”

  “So why doesn’t it work?” I asked.

  “I think that I misdiagnosed you. My prescription was wrong. It says to put your thinking part to bed, but I’ll wager that near the crucial moment you are doing all of your thinking with the lower part of your anatomy. Then it tells you to make your limp one full of life. Again it was wrong. Your brain was limp and the mantra woke it up.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Don’t you see? Both of your parts were asleep and we woke the wrong one. I believe this to be the case because no one with an alert brain would wave frankfurters in front of his genitals. You were using a prop that you didn’t need and repeating a mantra not made for your condition. What we must do is wake up the correct organ. I’ll give you a new poem.”

  She then recited,

  “Do not question when or why,

  Sing the brain a lullaby.

  Know this task will not take long,

  Let the organ play its song.”

  She leaned back and smiled. “Repeat this and all should be well. Your lazy busboy may not become master of ceremonies, but he will get back to work.”

  Adriana was grinning. “So, did it work? Did your busboy cross the picket line? Was Monica pleased with the results?”

  “One question at a time. Yes it worked. Although he has suffered frequent unemployment, my busboy has not gone on strike for years. Unfortunately, Monica left — she suffered from a lack of self-esteem and didn’t think herself worthy of me.”

  “Not worthy of you. I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it … she said she couldn’t live with my everlasting importance.”

  “I too knew Monica,” Adriana crowed. “She told everyone in town that she had to leave because of your everlasting impotence. But, I know the lesson in the story.”

  “What’s that, lumpkin?”

  “Reciting poetry while waving one’s wiener is not a sound prescription for an evening of love.”

  A Sexual Primer

  DURING MY LONG LIFE I HAVE undertaken many expeditions to explore the outermost regions in the kingdom of love. It occurs to me that I would be doing you, the reader, a serious disservice were I not to provide you with explicit descriptions of the acts committed by those individuals who are sexually affiliated, each with the other, and that I would be remiss were I not to also provide you with step-by-step instructions on how to perform the described acts. To carry out this task it will be necessary to enumerate the variety of fleshly combinations extant in today’s world and to exposit the essential qualities of each.

  Relationships of a sexual nature occur in a variety of forms. They can be between a man and a woman, between a man and a man, between a woman and a woman, between many people and many other people, between individuals and inanimate objects, and between various parts of one’s own anatomy. In addition there are numerous permutations including a ménage à trois, a ménage à quatre, a ménage à cinq and others, ranging to whatever sized ménage can comfortably fit in a double bed.

  Because of the abundance of possibilities it is necessary to limit the number of arrangements that I will include. Except for occasional comment, I will concentrate my attention exclusively to acts that are performed one-on-one by the male and female genders. To be considered eligible for inclusion, a particular sex act must occur between a man and a woman on the same day and in roughly the same location. Start and end times should be approximately the same for both parties to ensure the duration for each is more or less equal. For example, if a man begins a sex act at 9:00 pm and finishes at 9:03 pm, giving an elapsed time of three minutes, then ideally the act should also take three minutes for the woman. There are four possible outcomes if these conditions are not met:

  Man starts first, finishes first. This means, of course, that the woman starts last and never catches up. Although it is considered bad form for the man to begin first, it is not illegal. It is inappropriate, however, for him to begin before the woman is present, and it is considered the ultimate faux pas for him to both start and finish before she arrives on the scene. The sequence of events is predictable. When done, the man rolls over and begins to snore, provoking the woman into the realization that she has been left to her own devices. Rather than take the road less travelled, she often abandons the entire activity and begins to hum the music to “Is That All There Is?”, whereupon the man wakens and inaugurates a question and answer session concerning last year’s World Series. The disparity of results means that this play closes on opening night precluding any chance of a second performance. In ancient Vedic texts this event is referred to as The Dash of the Rabbit.

  Man starts first, finishes second. Here, the woman ends first — an inadvisable outcome as research has shown that, in this situation, females tend to become bored and will wander away to engage in some other activity such as origami or tree planting. Occasionally, she may begin another sex act but it is rarely with the same man. Some males have suggested that women suffer from a short attention span but this comment is churlish and usually made in a fit of pique. In ancient Vedic texts this event is referred to as The Ascent of the Tortoise.

  Man starts second, finishes first. While technically a different outcome, the fact that the man finishes first means that all of the details of Event #1 apply, although because he has acted in a gentlemanly fashion and allowed his partner to spring first from the starting gate, he accumulates goodwill — goodwill to the extent that the woman may refrain from humming, “Is That All There Is?” and replace it with the refrain from “Speedy Gonzalez”. This outcome is referred to in ancient Vedic texts as The Rerun of the Rabbit.

  Man starts second, finishes second. Like her opposite in Event #1, the woman should refrain from beginning the sex act before the arrival of her partner, although a woman starting early has been known to act as a powerful motivator for the man. This event is so rare that it is not mentioned in ancient texts but has been referred to in professional circles as Ice Forming in Hades.

  The sex act, like a written story, should contain a beginning, a middle, and an end. It is assumed that prior to commencing sexual activity one has already met the partner of his or her dreams and has entered the seduction stage. During this phase both individuals should come to the realization that a liaison, if not mutually beneficial, might at least be pleasurable. Then the moods of
both parties should be brought into alignment so that an agreement is possible on a sexual course of action. The female mood can be swung to the appropriate angle by the male, engendering sympathy — often accomplished by lingering over a candle-lit dinner while he describes the excruciating loss of a dearly-loved childhood pet. When required, the sympathy index may be increased by the simple act of shedding a tear. If this proves difficult, the man can sometimes persuade a teardrop to appear by surreptitiously plucking a nose hair at the precise moment Old Shep draws his final breath.

  The female is most likely to manufacture a proper mood in the male by increasing his testosterone level. This can be accomplished by asking him to repeat, a minimum of three times, the incredible story of how, against all odds, he scored the winning touchdown in the very first Super Bowl played within the confines of his former high school. In the unlikely event that he is not a football hero, simply ask him to recount the bravest thing he’s ever done. The woman should be sure she is comfortable because neither tale is a short story.

  Just as a novel needs a strong beginning to captivate the reader, so too should the sex act begin with an activity that engages at least one of the participants. Unlike the novel, however, it is not advisable to initiate action too quickly. Things must proceed logically and in the correct order. No one would believe fiction where a character uttered unnatural dialogue. Not so in the sex act. Here it matters little whether the dialogue is believable or not. What is important is that discourse fit with the partner’s erotic fantasies. For example, if a woman is turned on by dreams of spending a lazy afternoon in the arms of Hollywood’s leading man, then it is imperative that the man not whisper details of his reveries concerning whipped cream and baloney sandwiches.