Lost Sex- The Mooner Johnson Story

 

So. I’m an idiot and a fuckball. My ADHD has been on the fritz so bad, I don’t know if I’m coming or just breaking a hard sweat.

Seriously, I didn’t slay that old saying, I’m talking about my aborted attempt at sex last night. SAC Ellen and I were deep into the moment– she was into the sex and I had started daydreaming. Actually, I was daydreamings in the plural, because I had maybe a dozen things swirling through the swill in my thick skull while in the conjugial position. Maybe that should be the conjugalist’s position.

While conjugally positioned?

Anyway, we had been at it for some time and the SACster was really into it. I won’t describe exactly what that means because I don’t kiss and tell. But she was really in it and nearing her logical conclusions, again plural if you know what I mean. She’s experiencing a rapid-heartbeat moment, and I said to her, I said, “I wonder how the product development team is coming with the One-Cup Wonder Flush project.”

I will say that I take my hat off to the SACster. She finished her business before kicking me out the door. On the way home, I was driving my GTO with all the windows down, and I was thinking about all of the sex I have lost in my lifetime. I don’t mean like the ones that got away in the classic sense, rather I mean the sex where you are either getting ready to have the sex and fuck something up, or you are already sexing away when you manage to screw the pooch.

I’m guessing that I’ve had an average amount of sex, maybe three times weekly since I was eighteen. Since I manage to lose the sex about one-out-of-every-three times, I could be having sex four times a week. I could realize a 33% increase in my sex life if I wasn’t such a bird-brained fuckball.

Ugh.

But I am excited about the One-Cup Wonder Flush project. That’s the device I invented to promote sanitary conditions for when you pee in someone else’s sink. You don’t need to be fussy when peeing in your own sink since you are certain of your aim. But using a certified system will assuage any fears a third-party sink owner might have.

A sink owner, or operator in the case where a rented building is in play, will be mightily impressed when you demonstrate the safe and sanitary operation using the One-Cup Wonder Flush. I’m thinking I might win a Nobel Prize for this one. I’m thinking this might be the big one for me– the one that puts me on the map.

Work was started on the male version and I was promised a prototype before the end of the summer. While they do that for me, I’ve been researching to find ideas for the female version. Have you ever noticed that women don’t like to let you watch them pee? Why is that? I’m not wanting to look out of any prurient interests, it’s for science for shitsakes.

I finally talked SAC Ellen into letting me watch and I must tell you that I was fascinated. Next time I’m wearing my wet suit and swim mask. When you get the bird’s-eye view of things, it’s pretty remarkable.

A woman’s body is an incredible thing. I love exploring them with a magnifying glass. If you haven’t explored your lady friend with a magnifying glass, you need to schedule an appointment and get her done. Men and women alike, if you have a woman as a lover you need to make this exploratory trip. You’ll thank me if you do.

Actually, I had a special pair of magnifying goggles made. They free-up both hands to assist in my explorations. Some woman parts take two hands to properly examine.

Have you ever watched a woman’s nipple harden under a ten-power magnifier? Hoo-yah!

What do you think the record is for lost sex? Who might hold it– and why? Me, I lose most of the sex I lose when I open my big, stupid mouth, but what might be the root causes for normal folks lose sex? Maybe if you pretend to be a woman and keep trying to have sex with straight men you’d suffer significant rejections at the actual sexing moment. But you’d likely expect to be mostly rejected in that case, so maybe that doesn’t count.

Or like if your pecker was the size of a fence post you’d be popular, most likely, but I doubt you’d get much sex from human females. Or maybe if you had halitosis. But if you had halitosis you’d likely get blown off before sex even became plausible.

I asked Gram when I got home, and you know what she said? “Oh, who gives a shit Mooner. It ain’t tha sex what gits away, dumass. It’s tha ones cain’t git away.”

I tried to explain to my randy old grandmother that I wasn’t talking about my lovers escaping me but, rather, I was meaning situations wherein I had fucked things up in the moment. Her answer, again predicable, was to say to me, “Still don’t make a shit. Same dealie.”

Oh well, today’s another day and I’ve got fish tacos to fry. I love fish tacos and the Squirt and Eighty-three the cat are especially excited about tonight’s preparations. I’m using the bluegills we three caught yesterday on our fishing expedition. Luckily, I managed to catch a few and get them into the cooler before Eighty-three could shred them to confetti. My hopes are that I can train the Siamese slasher to scale and fillet instead of rip to shreds.

Cold Carta Blanca beer, fish tacos with homemade guacamole and tomato salsa, refried beans ala Squirt, and artichoke soup.

I’m a touch uneasy about the beans, but who gives a shit? Manana’s another day, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Lost Sex- The Mooner Johnson Story”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, you really have to keep your mind on your business when you’re swapping bodily fluids with women who are legally allowed to carry sidearms! Personally, just knowing my lovely wife is capable of kicking my ass up around my neck before I can get my drawers pulled back up is enough of a deterent to dissuade any daydreams other than the kind I can get away with… and when we’re having sex, we all know what kind of daydreams are acceptable and which ones aren’t. You can daydream you’re banging away at Catherine Zeta Jones, or fantasize that the mouth wrapped around your pecker belongs to Meg Ryan, if that’s what gets you off. But you CAN’T start thinking about your ex or your former girlfriend (or her adult daughter…) if you know what’s good for you. Blurting out the name of a Hollywood movie idol in the middle of an orgasmic experience is probably not appreciated by most women, but they’ll handle that insult better than if they recognize the name you’re calling belongs to a former lover.

    And whatever brings your mind back to urine and sinks in the middle of sex has to be beaten down like a rabid dog! I’m surprised she didn’t fire a round or two at your trunk as you drove away!

    Focus, Mooner, Focus!

  2. Squat. Focus, Mooner, Focus should be my middle name. And now I have a new problem. Go over to A Daft Scots Lass and read her latest. Holy fucking shit. It’s the sexiest, funniest stuff I ever read. She’s now my image of the perfect dirty housewife.

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