Sex on Tuesday: Oh, Come Away With Me

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Minute Man

Janelle Albukhari, Nick Myers, and Mustafa Shalkh talk about the case of the minute man.





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Today, I'm here to talk to you about a very serious condition that's affecting the nation.

This is an affliction so terrible that it manifests doubly: in its physical form and in that of its psychological aftermath. It strikes unexpectedly and does not discriminate. Hide your kids, your sister and your wife; everyone is at risk.

And now, to reveal the delicate situation at hand. Behind curtain No. 1 lies ...

In this scene we have our protagonist pumping away like it's 1999, his eyes rigid with concentration. And then, of course, there's the girl. Whether she's laying idly, fantasizing about Food Network in between thrusts or actively participating, she's completely unaware of what lies ahead.

This ignorance is remedied shortly, however, when suddenly, there is no more pumping. No more rattling of the shitty IKEA bed frame. No more moaning.

No more images of lemon cream meringue being flambeed.

Suddenly, everyone is upset and no one is quite sure why. The girl does her best to simultaneously comfort her man while hiding her obvious annoyance, while the guy hangs his head with shame.

Both participants are equally upset and try to work through their humiliation together. This is the best-case scenario, of course. Erectile dysfunction, though tragic indeed, is, for the most part, involuntary. Its nature, not to mention its name, prevents it from being deliberate.

But it is not the worst that can befall you.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter: the case of the minute man.

You may not be able to spot him in a crowd. He has many forms, each more elusive than the next, each equally as wicked. He keeps an eye constantly open, always on the hunt for a new adventure. He may even have an Australian accent. We know nothing for sure.

But what we do know is this. The minute man, my dear readers, is the worst kind of man that you could ever hope to encounter because his title makes it clear what he so eagerly seeks - a mad dash to the finish.

If we lived in a world where we had to wear name tags describing our favorite sexual techniques, the minute man's would read, "I am the champion."

Within his own mind, he very much is. His goal gives him the tunnel vision he needs to succeed in getting in and out of any sexual encounter in a minute's time, a feat that would be impressive if it weren't so goddamn annoying.

To fully understand the nature of my rage, we have to delve further into the minute man's head. The goal? To come (simple enough). The means? To do it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, this simplistic kind of thinking eliminates the pleasure of the other participant. And if I happen to be that other participant, I will punish you. Not in the kinky way.

I will find you. You may forget, but I will hold this injustice in my heart silently, waiting for just the right time to act upon it.

We will go on walks in the park together and I'll smile at your from behind my ice cream cone. We'll stay up late swapping ghost stories under a tent made of pillows and telling each other secrets. Hell, we may even buy matching charm bracelets together.

The next time we find ourselves caught up in intimacy, I'll gaze into your face with shimmering eyes, reach down to unzip your jeans ... and then I will give you blue balls badly enough to make you cry for your mother.

Let me make it clear. I don't care what your excuse is; the fact is, there is no excuse. Any man who won't go longer than a minute in the bedroom deserves to be stripped of his title and called "boy-child" for the rest of his days. If you dive under the sheets with the secret intention of making this a habit, you, sir, are a despicable human being.

Now that may come off a little strong. And to the innocent bystander, it might be. But picture, for a minute, the situation that I feebly endured so, so many nights ago.

"Is it in yet?"

"Yeah. Uh, actually I'm finished."

" ... Excuse me?"

What usually followed this dialogue was stretching. And yawning. As if by which he wanted to give the impression he'd done such a fantastic job, he'd tired himself out for the night. The vein in my forehead twitched perceptibly, as if to say, "next time, I'm going to rupture before he does."

And it was my life. Not just for one night. But for several. You'd be amazed how much shit one person will put up with under the guise of "loving" someone. During that time, my shower head pleasured me more often than the man I was supposedly sleeping with.

Oh-ho-ho. But never again. The sexual revolution has come for me - and it never comes early.

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Give Janelle a minute of your time at [email protected]



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