by Brad Garrett
As most physicians will agree, premature ejaculation is not only common among millions of high school students but looked upon as good luck to Japanese businessmen visiting Norway. But is there a greater compliment you can give your partner than proving to her that you are so incredibly turned on, she need not even show up? What am I missing? Do we need to put a timetable on ecstasy? Has the world really come to that? The only reason women don’t have the joy of premature orgasm is that they don’t let themselves go there. Everything has to be finely orchestrated like a three-act opera.
Take a close look at the animal kingdom. Horse, spider, woodchuck—under two minutes and it’s “let’s hit the barn for some grub.” Why? Because they are egoless creatures with no hang-ups. To them, the gift is just showing up. The real orgasm? Grub back at the barn. I hear there is nothing more wonderful than elongated intercourse, but whatever happened to “The early bird catches the worm” and “tick tock, motherfucker”? Come on, ladies, start without me and I’ll “come in for the close” like the good car salesman I am.
I believe the phrase “midlife crisis” was coined not by a psychiatrist but by a jealous married guy. The yellow sports car, the young girlfriend, the new skull necklace . . . where’s the crisis? This is all the shit the married guy probably doesn’t have but deep down really wants. Of course, he’ll deny this because his wife may be listening, but every man goes through the feelings of a midlife crisis if not necessarily the actions. It’s in our DNA and conducive to our evolution. And why not? We figure we’ve lived on this planet for half a century, taken a lot of shit, worked our asses off, and maybe lost everything to the first wife or even the second one.
“I’ve earned my crisis and I’m damn well having one,” you may lament. In other words, “I want mine.” You know you’ll never be that young stud again, but maybe you can temporarily latch on to that young damsel who can briefly remind you of your better days, if only for ten thousand dollars a month. What’s the crisis? It’s a diversion from reality, but so is your toupee that makes you look like a moron. Or those snow-white fake teeth. Or her rubber lips and fake tits. Why are those considered okay and not crises? When women do this stuff, it’s called a second chance at life, a renaissance or a reckoning, or Eat, Love, and Pray, or some bullshit like that. Well, we want our time, too. That’s why we love Jack Nicholson, Mick Jagger, Jeff Bridges, and the pope. They have it all, and they stare youth right in the peepers and say, “Fuck you.”
Personally, I’ve inhabited both beings. I was the envious married guy and the midlife seeker of all that was shiny and curvy. Quite honestly, neither worked for me in the long term, but the short term was a blast. Zero regrets. Unfortunately, they both left me feeling empty because they lacked the authenticity of who I really was. And since I’m a comedian, both scenarios made it easier to make fun of myself.
I discovered Viagra in my early forties in hopes of giving my future plaintiff more pleasure. Or maybe it was the unabashed embarrassment of not being able to get a hard-on, I can’t remember. Now in my mid-fifties, I need the little blue patch instead of the little blue pill; something that’s pumped into my bloodstream so heavily that an issue of AARP The Magazine can get me off. Viagra has become a prerequisite to jacking off. I have to fool my dick into thinking it’s not really me. I’m not sure if it’s shame or disgust, but my hand seems to want to see other people and just be friends. Maybe just cuddle. I have actually seen my hand telling my dick, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
My physician warned me that it’s easy to take too many Viagra and that larger quantities could result in a painful four-to-five-hour erection. “Painful for whom?” I inquired.
“If that happens, you need to go to the emergency room or urgent care, seriously.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it hurts like crazy and you could end up with gangrene,” he replied. That was enough for me. That was when I decided to take only three at a time. After all, what’s more embarrassing than walking into the ER with a blazing hard-on, crying out for help? Can’t imagine they’d see me before the guy with the head wound. Unless I opened with “Please, I need help! Can somebody blow me? I need a nurse, and this time not Steve!”
I heard from a friend who works in an ER that they have to give the penis a shot of some kind when it won’t retract. Not sure what they shoot it with. Probably a dose of marriage.
Luckily for women, as they age, at least their vaginas stay relatively consistent as far as working order and shape. Yes, they may start to resemble the Dust Bowl of the late 1800s, but it’s still possible to navigate, with a little ingenuity, imagination, and a vat of chicken schmaltz. Guys, on the other hand, often lose that stiff wind that blew us into town, never to return without the help of Big Pharma. You wake up one morning and you’re fifty and your little buddy is a stranger. Like an old, uninterested mistress. Or an antiquated Christmas ornament that you forgot to take down from the backdoor, lifelessly dangling in the breeze—weathered, partially discolored, and pissed. “I’ve been used,” it says as it stares back at you in the mirror. “You only wanted me for sex.” Deep down, you know it’s right. Age has cheated you both. Your dick even has its own tiny beer belly. We call that the “dick gut.” It’s that second bulge under your stomach, just above the penis, where your pelvic bone used to hang out. Not anymore. Now it’s like a fleshy fanny pack but without pockets and with even less dignity. You’re like two twins, separated at birth by two guts. One gets hurt, the other one cries. My point is that evolution is kinder to the ladies. Got saggy boobs? Get a tit job. Got a saggy penis? Too bad.
15
Dating after Forty-Five
Dating when you’re middle-aged means you bring to the table a plethora of experience that it would have been impossible to possess earlier in life. And with that experience comes the luxury of lowering the bar, along with your expectations. At this point in your life, you should have nothing to prove and no one to impress. The opposite sex must lower their bar as well so the food chain can shift dramatically. It’s either that or everyone ends up alone.
Blind dates become much more prevalent in this stage of life (for good reason), and online dating has several advantages as well. The best part about dating at this age is that you have so many more excuses to bail when the fit isn’t right. When you’re twenty-six and you cancel because you’re “not feeling well,” she knows for a fact you’re full of shit. If you cancel at fifty-three, the excuses are endless and most likely probable. You will have at least three medical conditions to point to, as well as memory loss, sudden death of a friend, irritable bowel syndrome (my favorite go-to; usually buys me a week), your own sudden death, forgetting where you parked, and numbness of the lower extremities.
If you find yourself dating at this point in your life, you have two choices: stay within your generation or go for someone you have no right being with but feel you’ve finally earned. I recommend the latter because you’ve most likely tried the other and it led to a divorce, boredom, hatred, or all of the above, so what have you got to lose? Pray you find someone who does not rely on your body or personality as the attraction, because one is shot and the other is warped. Maybe she’ll like you for your money, or your boat, or the cabin in Aspen. It’s all good. That’s why you got that shit in the first place, remember? To attract the pink, get into a relationship where you can say, “We’re using each other and we’re fine with it.” It doesn’t get healthier than that.
You never hear a fifty-year-old say, “I hope to settle down with my best friend.” That’s thirtysomething bullshit. At fifty, you most likely already have a best friend or two. Now it’s time for someone who isn’t expecting much, has her own independence, and will let you take the A-Train once every couple months, regardless of her age.
Ironically, the truest love of my life, IsaBeall, is twenty-four years my junior. And no, that’s not why she’s the love of my life. But it helps. I fell right into the stereotype that I used to make fun of
in my act, and now I have a slew of jokes shining a light on our age difference. How she colors the menu when we go out to dinner; the way her big-girl shoes light up when she walks; how a game of “got your nose” is considered foreplay; how we met when I got her Frisbee out of the tree; how she accidentally triggered an Amber Alert when we went to a movie.
Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can’t aim for the man or woman of your dreams, but be realistic about it. If Izzy dumps me for a thirty-year-old stud, you’ll never be able to say, “I bet Brad didn’t see that coming.” Of course I saw it coming, you idiots! Maybe I didn’t welcome it with open arms, but I sure got it, because I was once thirty. Not a stud, but thirty nonetheless. Love is ageless. Just like sliding down a hill in a cardboard box or jumping up and down on your orthopedic bed. If your back is fine with it, it may be worth trying. But it doesn’t make sense to put a number on love. As far as I’m concerned, all are welcome.
I entered into this relationship as an opportunity to enjoy a young, beautiful woman for what it was worth. But I ended up being broadsided by the greatest heart and soul I have ever encountered. None of it would have been possible if I hadn’t risked, expected nothing, and thought out of the box like a lecherous old man. Ironically, she is the first woman I’ve ever had a serious relationship with who adores her father and vice versa. So much for younger women dating older guys because of their daddy issues.
We all know that sex sells. That could be why I’ve had to start over financially several times. There are two kinds of sexual people: those who want it and those who use it to get what they want. And you can’t have one without the other, right? But as a society, we must begin to give it a lot less weight. We must make it a common courtesy. A gesture of goodwill. We must get to the point where it’s brief and recreational. The less attached we are, the clearer we can think. Is she really that good for me? Why did she laugh during foreplay? And where exactly was that humming coming from?
Let’s go back to the animal kingdom for some more tips. Every wild and domesticated animal on earth is able to engage in sex without the mind-fuck that accompanies the act in the human world. Many scientists say that is because the only reason species engage in sex is to mate, and the act has nothing to do with egocentric pleasure. Really? Then maybe you can explain to me why my dog insists on humping the ottoman or licking his balls until he falls asleep. Is he that fucking stupid to think his gyrations will lead to procreation? Or maybe the scientists can explain why a cat walks back and forth against a drape until she looks like she needs a cigarette.
I know that several of you gals reading this right now may think I’m a selfish womanizer, or an unemotional man-whore, or a “squirrel trying to get a nut,” as my nana used to say. But trust me, I know at least two women who feel exactly the way I do. The double standard unfortunately refers to these women as progressive, independent self-starters or lesbians. Yes, I will admit I have a fear of commitment. That fear honestly comes from the thought of never being able to touch anyone else’s breasts ever again. And that’s what makes me fearful. I’m committed to variety.
As we venture out for companionship in our later years, remember the three things that will break up any relationship eventually: sex, money, or smelling one’s fingers during a rodeo. I strongly encourage one-night stands. You need to know right out of the gate if the one-eyed liar can dance with the taco of fury. The more time you wait to release the hounds, the more time you’ve wasted. If the sex sucks, you’re out of Dodge with the fewest casualties.
Sex is not everything, but it becomes much larger in scope when everything else falls to shit. Another item to attach to the This Ain’t Working To-Do List. It’s paramount in every relationship unless you’re lucky enough to be one of two people who hate sex. Highly improbable, but a homerun if this is the case. Also, nothing goes better with sex than spontaneity, and the longer you wait, the less impromptu and exciting it becomes. Women never expect older guys to be spontaneous. It’s exciting to enter someone whose name is on the tip of your tongue. That’s how the words “darling,” “baby,” and “monsignor” were created. Don’t overthink it. You can always do that when you’re sneaking down the stairs.
There is a reason why prostitution is the oldest and most successful business in the world.
It’s not just about paying women for sex; we pay them to leave. And the older we get, the quicker we want them to leave. Without judging, questioning, or crying. That’s their best attribute: hookers don’t cry. Except in the movies. Or if they lie to Big Daddy. As expressed previously, the power of the pink always comes at a price, but most gals have trouble understanding why we want to pay for it.
I confessed to Izzy that I once paid a hooker for a hand job. She tried desperately, without judging(?), to understand my rationale. She appeared perplexed, so without defending or validating my actions, I tried to explain. She listened intently and responded with “But if you’re going to the trouble of hiring a prostitute, why pay for something you can ultimately do yourself?”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “You can’t have a Home Depot mentality when it comes to sex. We spend decades doing it ourselves. Sometimes we welcome the help.” I suppose, being a man, I just didn’t understand her question. I tried to see it from a woman’s perspective, but no luck. I sputtered for a minute and thought I smelled burnt toast. It was mind-boggling to me that she found it more frivolous than unsavory. So fucking mature, in fact, that it pissed me off. So I said, “I didn’t want to do it myself. That’s the point. When I look down at my hand, it’s not soft and supple or French-manicured. Even with my crazy imagination, when I look down there, all I see is some hairy, Hungry Jack Breakfast Man–hand, don’t you understand? I’m a man, woman! We only jerk off when we’re out of options!” She giggled at me the way you would at a child, kissed me on the cheek, and went to make tea. That’s precisely why they’re the dominant other. That’s why men are the hunters and gatherers, because if we’re eaten upon leaving the cave, the smarter, more insightful counterpart, doodling on the walls and waiting for Dumb-Dumb to return, can continue the species without us. And, as we know, they’re very content with that possibility.
* * *
I found myself once again in the dating pool at the age of forty-five. This is where “a lot of fish in the sea” becomes “several bottom-feeders peppered with sharks possessing false teeth.” The most disheartening encounter was with women my age who had decided to battle the test of time by getting “work done.” I found this distorted display of vanity more of a turnoff than anything. In my opinion, it gave the younger birds an even greater advantage. What these middle-aged ladies don’t seem to understand is that if we want the younger look, we’ll go for someone younger. To me, there is nothing sexier than a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, literally. And the bottom line is, if you’re not fooling anyone, why get the face done? The tits are easier to hide and at least leave some question in the balance. The fish lips, the pulled eyes, the frozen expression, the tight chin above the original turkey neck . . . what the hell are you doing? It’s like guys who wear those ridiculous toupees. Again, if you’re not fooling anyone—which you’re not—what’s the point?
I once read an article about an eighty-year-old grandmother from Vegas who asked her family for breast implants as a birthday gift. The inbred, white-trash family obliged. Nana must have looked nice with her new rock-hard tits to complement that century-old vag. Only in Vegas could you find a doc to perform such an abomination.
* * *
Ultimately, most men are fine being alone later in life, whereas women often find themselves in a frenetic race to find someone to settle down with. Take advantage of this, guys—it’s one of the few times you’ll be in the driver’s seat. Let’s look into our choices, shall we?
THE WIDOW
I should tell you from the get-go that funerals and hospitals get me horny. I’ve discussed this at length with my therapist, and he’s concluded that it
’s because life never seems more fragile than when death or sickness is near. The reality check causes people with mild sexual addiction to consider mating quickly, in order to balance out the population as part of their civic duty. I also believe it has something to do with women in black. Or black nurses in white tending to our every need. Or backless gowns. Or illegal immigrants preparing a final resting place under a beautiful tree. Or a sponge bath from a stranger. It’s the real “Circle of Life,” without the baboon and the baby lion.
There are probably more pluses than minuses when it comes to dating a widow, compared to our other options. Unless the former husband died by the hands of the Mob, ask questions and appear concerned about her loss. But let her bring it up. If she hasn’t delved into details by the time dessert arrives, she doesn’t give a shit about you. Please keep in mind that widows are the most difficult to bed, especially if the loss was in the last seventy-two hours. They have double the remorse to contend with if they decide to sleep with you. The first half of their guilt comes from fear of their passed partner looking down from heaven or up from hell, neither of which is a great angle for either of you. And the second half of the guilt just comes from fucking your tired, flabby ass.
Most importantly, make sure she’s not a Black Widow. If she talks about her husband’s passing while pleasuring herself and shaking a rain stick, run like the wind, my friend. When a woman loses a partner through death, you may have the toughest act to follow simply because the separation was not a choice. Find out as much information as you can about the dearly departed. Like his weight, for example. The fatter, the better. If he sold Herbalife or managed a tire store, I hope you washed Area Fifty-one before picking her up, because you’re most likely a lock on taking the bologna pony to tuna town. Just don’t be stupid enough to ask to see a picture of him. If he ran a Fortune 500 company, had a thirty-inch waist, and skied the black diamonds, kiss her hand, say goodnight, and wish her Godspeed during her time of healing. Your chances are as dead as he is.