You're a dink. Let's fuck.

In our fair cities and towns there exists a curious conundrum. It has to do with the act of intercourse (so what else is new?) and the creation of the sex timetable. Here's whit I mean:

You and I meet at a bar, a party, the church bazaar. I think you're kinda cute, and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and the most ridiculous-bullshit-in-a-halitosis-wrapper comes out. I'm all done and politely excuse myself to stare at the bowling championships on TV. Sex Timetable? Uh, that would be never. Does never work for you?

Next scenario: you and I meet at a bar, party, etc. I think you're really really really cute and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and all I can think of is Vinnie Barbarino. Sex Timetable? t-minus 40 minutes, because we just ordered another round.

Final scenario: you and I meet at a bar, Plushie convention, etc. I think you're pretty cute and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and tell me how you've never met someone so funny, so beautiful, so amazing. And isn't it weird how we both like Neil Diamond. And you want to take me to dinner tomorrow night. Sex Timetable? A few weeks, possibly a month.

Aint that a hoot? And we all do it, boys and girls, vegetables and minerals. If we likey, we wait. And if we don't give a flying fuck, the clothes come flying off. The nice ones get blue balls while the dinks are screwing like rabbits on speed. What a crazy, mixed up world...