Done in 60 Seconds…But I Promise it’ll Be Good!
If it’s quality, and not quantity, that counts, then I deserve a gold medal for getting women off in record time.
The first time I was accused of being a quick fuck was a monumental day. I had always fancied myself to be a Don Juan between the sheets, with an instinctive ability to hit, with precise ease, all the right notes on a woman’s body. I wasn’t into a fast lay, or so I thought; as the self-appointed “Mr. Romance,” I was always determined to take my time and give the woman the proper tender-loving care she deserved–however long that took.
That is until I made the crucial mistake of picking up a girl the night of my party-animal-friend Mark’s 30th birthday, which meant the magnums of Vodka and Jack Daniels would be ushered out in full force, and I would be in no mood to talk to a girl, let alone physically capable to take her home.
The thing is, I had always shied away from ultra-drunk sex, particularly because I never trusted myself to handle it well, and my fragile ego didn’t want to run the risk of having the entire island of Montreal knowing what a horrible bang I was.
Under normal circumstances, I would have just taken her number down and called her the next day (once the toxins had been safely flushed away from my liver). But she was an aggressive 24-year-old, adamant that she go home with me. And there was somewhat of a history between us: She had repeatedly asked me out over the past few months via Facebook and I was always able to dodge the bullet successfully. Cute girl, but I “just wasn’t that into her.” (Did I mention that I also have a serious problem with being direct?)
But this time there was no escaping. She was a guest at the same birthday party (a friend of a friend—surprise! Small world!) and she figured she’d use my impaired judgment to her advantage. I was sure it had less to do with her wanting me, and more to do with salvaging her bruised ego. Whatever the reason, she offered to drive my drunk ass home.
I barely had time to take off my coat before she was pinning me up against the front door (now she’s direct, I’ll give her that). I don’t know if the booze had revved up my engine exponentially or if it was my desire to get the night over with ASAP so I could go hug the toilet, but in one quick swoop I picked her up and, with her legs wrapped tightly around my waist, slammed her up against the hall closest. I didn’t even bother with the undressing. I just remember giving it to her like the cure for cancer depended on it. And after a few hollers and some heavy breathing, it was over.
Quick…to the point…incredible! (Fun Fact: I believe we spent more time in the elevator than doing the deed). Had I been sober, I might have been more embarrassed. Regardless, the expression on her face said “Mission: Accomplished.”
“Wow, that was hot!” she beamed.
“Really?” I asked, dumbfounded. I was prepared to blame the alcohol for making a typical quickie look like a 3-hour handjob, but realized that there was NOTHING wrong with this picture. There was passion, hot animal sex, and (hopefully) two satisfied customers.
Had she not called me the next day to ask me out for a movie, I would have suspected that her orgasmic elation was just her being happy to have finally gotten what she wanted. But now she was, ahem, “coming” back for more! (Things that make you go “Hmmm…”).
Did I just stumble upon a ground-breaking theory, that in the Rock, Paper, Scissors of sex, “awesome quickies” always beat “so-so marathons”?
“You’re nuts! What the hell am I supposed to do in 60 seconds!” That was the first shriek I heard while having dinner with some close female friends the following night. I wanted to get their opinion on whether or not I was onto something.
At least the waiter agreed with me. Having overheard our conversation, he leaned over for a high-five.
“I need passion. 60 seconds ain’t gonna cut it!” yelled another, a 40-year-old recently-single lawyer who, just two minutes prior, was bitching that there were no normal guys left in Montreal.
But I was unyielding, pointing out that there was a fine line that separated 60 seconds of sheer bliss from the dreaded premature ejaculation. I was sure that if girls really understood this distinction, they would see things my way.
And from this simple squabble, the ultimate Sex Survey Du Jour was born:
Do women prefer 30 seconds of “OMG!” or 2 hours of “Meh!”
So I got up and started working the room. We were at Globe, which gave me a nice, trendy demographical mix of prospects. One by one, I introduced myself, said I was taking part in an important sociological experiment, one that could forever alter the playing field for men everywhere, and asked them to choose between fast/good or slow/bad.
Like so many underdog teams before me, my 0-2 deficit had shifted to a 21-6 victory in my favor (well worth the three death threats I received from girls who were less-than-willing to participate in my little questionnaire) and I felt vindicated. Plenty of people, it seemed, were willing to do things the Ninja Style way.
My friends cried foul, insisting I had “rephrased the question” to slant the odds in my favor (nonsense!). Alas, some women would rather succumb to all the minute-men of the world than have time-wasting sex.
Granted, the 60 seconds doesn’t include foreplay. Does it always have to? If it’s a good romp that two people are looking for, why prolong things? Make it short, concise and to the point (that’s what my journalism professor always told me), and leave the nibbling, giggling and snuggling for a rainy Sunday afternoon.
Maybe women have had it all wrong this whole time; maybe good sex should be measured in seconds, not inches.