Sex in the Title - a Comedy about Dating, Sex, and Romance in NYC (back when phones weren't so smart)

by Zack Love

“Well, it was just an experience. You can chalk it up to your experimental youth.”

  “But I just turned twenty-nine a few months ago.”

  “So call it your ‘experimental twenties.’ Besides, everyone’s got some skeletons in the closet. Including your future wife. So the two of you will just have to accept each other as is.”

  “My wife won’t have any skeletons!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she’ll be perfect,” he said, thinking wishfully of Delilah Nakova.

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “She’ll be perfect I tell you,” Evan said, with conviction, wiping away his tears.

  “Well if she’s perfect, why would she choose to be with anyone less perfect than her?”

  “Because she’ll have compassion for imperfect fools like me. That’ll be part of her perfection.”

  Chapter 20

  Penilosophy

  At 8 a.m. the next morning, over a hospital breakfast of saccharin cereal and salty scrambled eggs, Evan and Sammy began discussing life and women again, but in a much more jocular spirit. They exchanged funny anecdotes of female flubs and follies: from the long list – still in Evan’s back pocket – of untried permutations for Sayvyer’s forgotten phone number to Heeb’s brief foray into nude modeling for art classes.

  They continued talking and laughing for a few hours and almost forgot where they were until their light mood was cut short by the arrival of a nurse in her late fifties. It was time for a cleaning. They looked at each other with the same expression of terrified anxiety, exhaled heavily, and took some painkillers.

  Despite the analgesics, they both felt occasional flare-ups of soreness that led them to shake their legs involuntarily. In fact, the only thing that made those stinging moments tolerable was humor. They had grown comfortable enough with each other to laugh freely at how ridiculous they each looked in their respective beds, wearing just the baggy, grey hospital gown, with their naked legs shaking and their groin areas covered by loose gauze.

  Although the flare-ups didn’t usually occur to Evan and Heeb at the same time, the worst incident of that morning was relatively simultaneous.

  Evan desperately searched for some levity to relieve their pangs.

  “You know the United Negro College Fund?” Evan began, between groans.

  “You’re thinking of civil rights now?!” Heeb replied in a gasp.

  “No…” Evan replied, as he began to moan.

  “As long as it’s…” Heeb began, breathing through some burning sensation. “As long as it’s not animal rights,” he continued, to Evan’s amusement. “Because the animals…The animals violated my fuckin’ civil rights…My prick feels like it’s been pricked,” Heeb said, gasping for relief. “Like someone put pepper on my peter…”

  Evan blurted out a squeal that combined laughter with an achy howl.

  Heeb involuntarily gnarled up his face into a comical, exaggerated expression as he tried to contain the smarting sensation. “Damned cat turned my penis into a pain-is.”

  Evan emitted some more spastic laughs between his wailing. “Painis…That’s a good one…I’ve got a painis now too…” The two switched between laughing and yelping.

  “So like I was saying…The United Negro College Fund has a great quote,” Evan began again, trying to get the words out faster, to avoid laughing at Heeb’s joke again. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

  “I know there’s a relevant connection here somewhere,” Heeb replied sarcastically through gritted teeth.

  “There is,” Evan stammered, between chuckles. “There is…If you’ll let me finish.”

  “Just a sec,” Heeb said, taking some more painkillers.

  “Good idea,” Evan replied, doing the same.

  “I used to live by,” Evan started and then exhaled some pain away. “By…by the Hugh Hefner version of that quote.”

  “You mean: a penis is a terrible thing to waste?”

  “Yeah,” Evan replied, in a moan. “But these days I’ve got a new version of that quote…A penis is a terrible thing. Period,” Evan said, gasping.

  “Yes…It really is,” Heeb said, in strained agreement. “But the sad irony is that, without it, we’d have no motivation to do anything.”

  Evan struggled some more with the intense discomfort and then added, “You’re so right…”

  And as their penile pain began to subside, the two men were able to form more complex thoughts, resulting in a collaborative work: the development of a worldview that might be described as “penilosophy.” This reductionist metaphysics posited that the penis is the source of all significant acts – good and bad – produced by men. From the Trojan Wars prompted by Helen eloping with Paris, to the muse that Beatrice was to Dante, to the castration suffered by Abelard for his love of Heloise, Heeb and Evan came up with various examples of how the course of a man’s life is determined by the compass of his penis.

  Any psychologist would have taken their speculative philosophical foray as evidence that Heeb and Evan had developed a penile fixation in response to their injuries, but the two men were increasingly convinced and excited by the depth of their insight. They concluded that virtually everything done or made by men could be explained in terms of Darwinian survival strategies to perpetuate sperm.

  “Even pavement, for God’s sake!” blurted out Evan. “Even pavement is there because of the penis.”

  “Of course it is!” replied Heeb. “There were a lot of penises performing lots of hard labor to create the pavement. And the pavement itself enables a more efficient society, in which penises can more readily travel to vaginas, and vice-versa.”

  “Good point,” said Evan. “And did you know that if you put the word ‘penis’ into a Google search you’ll get six million hits, but if you put in the word ‘vagina’ you’ll get only three million hits?”[3]

  “That’s probably because there are more men than women surfing the Internet,” Heeb conjectured.

  “But those men are mostly straight, so why would the websites be about penises?” Evan asked.

  “True. But even straight men obsess about the penis. After all, we’ve established that it’s the moving force behind everything.”

  “But what about the Pet Rock,” Evan began, worried that he might have found a powerful counter-example to refute their carefully crafted theory. “I don’t see the penis there.”

  “That’s just like bubble gum,” Heeb said, without the slightest concern about the soundness of their new philosophy. “The product itself is of no real utility to evolutionary survival, but a penis out there realized that – with some shrewd marketing – the idea could make money. And money is always a great way for one penis to outdo all the other penises, in its competition for the best vaginas out there.”

  “You have a point there,” Evan replied, somewhat relieved. “But what if the Pet Rock was invented by a vagina?”

  “I don’t think Gary Dahl had a vagina. But that’s irrelevant,” Sammy concluded.

  “Why is it irrelevant?”

  “Because these days vaginas also make money to compete for penises. Look at all of the female multi-millionaires out there today.”

  “You mean to tell me that the Oprahs of the world are pursuing success so they can choose from a better selection of penises?” Evan asked.

  “You don’t see them dating guys who look like me, do you?” Heeb replied.

  “That’s just because they haven’t discovered your lovely cock yet.”

  “Hey, that’s not funny,” Sammy snapped, getting defensive and insecure.

  “Coming from me it is! Come on, you can tease me about the same issue. We have to be able to laugh about this, or we’ll never get over it.”

  “All right, but don’t get us off on a tangent. Our theory still works,” Heeb said.

  “What theory?”

  “We can still safely conclude that if you eliminated every penis on the planet earth, very little would get done,
and the human species would go totally extinct in no more than about a century.”

  “You mean eliminate men? Or leave the men but eliminate their penises and testicles?” Evan asked.

  “The second one.”

  “And you’re assuming that the sperm banks have gone bankrupt?” Evan clarified.

  “Yes, take all frozen sperm out of the equation.”

  “OK, so if all you have is men without their equipment, then you don’t have sperm. And then the men have no sex drive, so they have no motivation to do anything significant, and the women’s eggs all go to waste, and, as the decades pass, more and more of humanity is gone.”

  “Right,” affirmed Heeb. “And then, no more than about a century after you removed male genitalia from the planet, the last, longest living human has died. And then the roaches take over.”

  “That’s pretty grim.”

  “It really is.”

  “God bless the penis,” Evan declared.

  “Amen. God bless the penis.”

  The two shared a pause of reflective silence, as if to pay homage to the grand penisophical conclusions they had just reached. During the passage of this awe-filled, respectful moment, Heeb noticed that his “painis” was now only a mild irritation, and merely noting the improvement was enough to return him to the calamity at hand.

  “So I think it’s fair to say,” Heeb began, breaking their silence, “that we’ve been injured in the spot that’s most important to mankind.”

  “And to manhood,” Evan added, looking over at him.

  “How can we get over something like this?” Heeb asked, somewhat distressed. “How can we get over an attack on the organ that is most important to manhood and mankind?”

  “We have to.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes. We just agreed that the future of mankind depends on it,” Evan remarked.

  “Well, that’s not exactly accurate. It’s not like every other penis on earth has been decommissioned.”

  “No, but that’s how you have to think of it – as if the future of our species now depends on you and me overcoming this terrible penile challenge.”

  “That could be an inspiring way to approach it,” Heeb replied.

  “Yes. Remember that we’re men. And another prerequisite to being a man is being tough.”

  “But maybe I’m not tough enough for this,” Sammy worried aloud. “And if I’m not tough enough, and my penis is broken, maybe I’m no longer a man.”

  “Your penis isn’t broken!”

  “It sure feels that way.”

  “Just give it a few months. We’ll get over this thing, I promise…Look, I’m actually seeing how this could be a good thing for me.”

  “What?!” Heeb replied, incredulously.

  “Well, I haven’t told you this yet, but I’m a writer.”

  “I thought you’re a computer programmer.”

  “I am. But that’s my day job. You know, my version of bartending. But I’m really a writer. I’ve been working on a novel for the last five years. And I’ve written several screenplays.”

  “Wow! Were any of your scripts made into movies?”

  “I hate that question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the answer always sounds so loserish. It sounds really hip and glamorous to tell people that I write screenplays. Until they ask if one of my scripts has ever been produced. The answer always takes me from cool writer to unproven wannabe.”

  “I actually started with the assumption that you’re an unproven wannabe,” Heeb retorted.

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I generally don’t tell anyone that I write unless it’s some woman I’m trying to pick up.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because a lot of women think it’s sexy – especially those who don’t ask annoying follow up questions and just assume that I’m a successful screenwriter.”

  “See what I mean? I’m becoming a woman. I’m not tough like a man, my schlong is broken, and you’re telling me things that you only tell to women.”

  “Would you stop with that self-pitying crap? My little guy is as broken as yours, and I’m telling you that I’m a writer because you asked how I could view this injury as a blessing.”

  “Oh. Well excuse me for not seeing the very obvious connection between your creative writing and the blessing of sustaining a dick bite…You know, sometimes I miss these things that are as clear as day.”

  “Well, we got sidetracked when you asked me that annoying question that everyone asks.”

  “All right. I’m sorry for not assuming that you’re an Oscar-winning screenwriter.”

  “That’s not the point!” Evan protested. “People should think that being a writer is cool. Even if you’re just a starving writer. Besides, most great writers were starving writers at one point or another. It comes with the title.”

  “All right already. I think it’s cool that you’re a writer. Now would you make the damn connection for me between your writing and your penis injury?”

  Evan adjusted himself on the bed a little and exhaled a breath of deep frustration, in preparation for an admission of which he was quite ashamed.

  “I’ve been writing this novel for the last five years…” Evan seemed reluctant to continue the confession.

  “What’s it about?” Heeb asked, trying to prod Evan along.

  “It’s about women…Men and women…Five years…Do you know where I am in the novel?”

  Heeb shook his head.

  “Five years…And I’m on page fifty-nine.”

  Heeb wasn’t quite sure why that was so bad. Fifty-nine pages over five years came to almost a page a month, he figured, and that was far more than he had ever written. But then, again, he had never wanted to write.

  Evan saw that Heeb wasn’t so impressed with his tragic confession, and proceeded to explain the problem in greater detail, his voice rising in angry self-rebuke. “Do you know where I would be right now – in the novel – if I didn’t have a penis?”

  Heeb shook his head again.

  “I would be done. No. I would be more than done. I would have already cranked out the prequel, and I’d be finishing up the sequel. That’s where I would be, after five years. But…But because I have a penis, I’m only on page fifty-nine of the first book. Do you see the connection now?”

  “Almost. But I’m still confused. Because you say that you’ve written several screenplays. So maybe if you were writing only the novel you would have made better progress on it.”

  “That wouldn’t have helped.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the screenplays had almost nothing to do with women, and I had no problem cranking them out quickly. But the novel is all about women. Women and men.”

  “So?”

  “So instead of writing my novel about women, I would go out and try to meet them, date them, sleep with them. And then I would justify all of that time that I should have been writing as research time.”

  “But that actually sounds like a very reasonable and scientific approach to your subject matter: collecting raw data before reaching your conclusions.”

  “I’ve got enough hard data, Sammy!” Evan was clearly very disappointed with himself. “No pun intended,” he added.

  “I see. And your excesses in the data collection department are all because you have a penis.”

  “Exactly….And now we come back to the paradox we started with. If I didn’t have a penis, then women wouldn’t be such a huge distraction for me and I could finish my novel. But then I wouldn’t have as much to write about. And I certainly wouldn’t care about actually finishing the novel.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, if I didn’t have a penis, women wouldn’t be so much more interesting to me than men are, and I wouldn’t feel the urge to write about them. And – more to the point – I’d have no desire to impress them with the completion of a great novel.”

  “Why not finish the novel to impress
your family?”

  “That would never impress them.”

  “So you mean to tell me that you want to finish this novel so badly because it’ll make you more attractive to women?”

  “Basically.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Heeb replied, skeptically rumpling his brow.

  Evan reflected on Heeb’s reaction for a moment.

  “You’re right,” he said in resignation, as if he had finally been caught distorting the truth. “I’m not entirely serious,” he continued, introspectively. “There’s definitely something deeper going on with this ridiculous compulsion I feel to write…Because there are far more effective ways to attract women than to write a novel about them. After all, who the hell even reads novels anymore?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Come on, let’s be honest. Do you read novels?”

  “No. Not since college.”

  “There you go…And you’re a Harvard grad.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve always been more into math, science, and philosophy.” Heeb opened the drawer next to his bed and pulled out the chocolate Snickers bar that he had asked the nurse to bring him.

  “That doesn’t matter. A few hundred years ago, even the math geeks read novels. Because there was really nothing else in the way of entertainment.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Heeb replied, trying to couch his doubts softly, on what was clearly a sensitive topic for Evan.

  “Why do I feel the need to succeed in an art form that’s doomed to extinction?” Evan asked, in despair.

  “Just because I don’t read novels doesn’t mean they’re doomed,” said Heeb, as he unwrapped his Snickers bar.

  “Look, novels made sense as an entertainment form back in the 1800s, when the closest you could get to a soap opera was Dickens and Balzac. Today, you can get dicks and ball sacks on Internet porn, so even soap operas don’t cut it.”

  Heeb was somewhat distracted by his Snickers chocolate bar now. Compared to the hospital food, it seemed to Heeb as if it were the quintessence of pure and natural food – grown organically from the earth and full of goodness for the body and spirit. His mouth began to salivate, just looking at the large bar of chocolate and imagining beneath it the nutty and creamy filling that would provide his mouth with an instant orgasm.