Shh! Here’s a little secret.
Sacramentans are making love in the afternoon. They’re making love in the morning. They’re making love at night. Come to think of it, Sacramentans are making love all of the gosh-darned time, and it probably isn’t a secret, since you’re all doing it! Maybe it’s the hot summer weather, which lends itself so well to clothing-optional conditions. Or maybe it’s because we’re not so much in a hurry that we can’t enjoy the simpler, finer things in life, such as hot, naked summer sex, 24-seven. If that’s not an adventure, what is?
Rubbing sticks and stones together gets the sparks igniting, and the thought of rubbing sweetie’s getting so exciting! Any guilt you might have felt about skipping your planned outing melts once the pair of you slip between the sheets. It doesn’t get any better than this. In no time, Fat Elvis is but a distant memory and Little Elvis is getting all the attention. However, unbeknownst to you, you’re about to check into the Heartbreak Hotel.
You go to the bathroom—it’s sweetie’s place; usually you go to yours—use the facilities and then wash your hands. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you notice that the medicine cabinet door is slightly ajar. At first, you curse yourself for even thinking it. After all, if you and schnookums don’t have trust, what do you have? But you can’t help yourself and you open the cabinet all the way.
Inside, you find an assortment of prescription medication Rush Limbaugh would envy: uppers, downers, inners, outers, goofballs, speedballs, screamers, shouters. You start pulling bottles off the shelves and reading the labels. Jesus H. OxyContin! Son-of-a-god-damned-Xanax! Holy Ritalin! One of the bottles slips from your hands, the lid pops off and pills scatter across the floor. You scramble to put them back in the bottle without drawing attention to yourself.
“What do you think you’re doing?” your lover says, standing in the bathroom doorway.
At this juncture, you’ve got three choices. You can split the scene and never return. You can pull some sort of interventionist routine. Or you can get in on the pill-popping action, knowing that you’ll soon be greeting Elvis and Dr. Nick in hell.
You always did want to meet the King.
You’re walking through a forest of dildos, tubes of lube and things you’d never imagine inserting into a human orifice, even your boss'. Whether you’re at the G Spot, Grind ’n Groove, or Kiss N Tell, the greeting is the same. Welcome to Santa’s demented toy workshop.
Why are you here? Perhaps its the hope that being in the proximity of the collected works of Ron Jeremy will ignite the passions of your potential paramour. Or maybe you’re looking for something phallic and offensive, something that says, “I am a sexual pervert and you should stay away from me.”
You tell yourself these things, but all of them are lies.
The truth is, you’re here because you need … something.
There are only three Golden Rules here, Christian. No. 1: Leviticus has nothing to say on the subject of Latex. No. 2: It can’t be too big. No. 3: The love of your life, upon being presented with your surprise gift, is not going to gleefully exclaim, “Just what I wanted! A sack full of dildos!”
OK, perhaps your sweetie will greet you with a giant smile and a knowing wink, pulling you inside and straight into the bedroom, where you will remain for the entire summer. Maybe the negative message you’re trying to send, that you’re some sort of deviant, will be interpreted correctly. The point is there’s no telling how it will be taken, and you know it.
So stop kidding yourself. You know why you’re really here. You wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of that Nubby Stump butt plug, would you?
Look, no one in as fragile a state as yours should really be alone. The flip side is that no one really wants to be around anyone in such a fragile state, as least for any length of time. Even your best friends think it’s time you licked your wounds instead of milking them. They ceaselessly remind you that breaking up was, after all, your idea. In short, they’ve become undependable, and you need something you can count on.
Yes, a creature should do the trick. One that can love you unconditionally and be furry to boot. It’s a different kind of companionship, and you’re ready for it. The people and the animals at Happy Tails Pet Sanctuary are happy to see you, and to send you home with a new feline friend. OK, so, yeah, you’re alone and it’s not all that great. But you have your kitty, and your kitty has you. “Why not become a Happy Tails volunteer?” you think. Perhaps your doomed relationship has prepared you well for a hobby as a feral-cat caregiver? Well, at least some good came out of this.
The kids are at the lake and you and your better half are on the make. Just kicking back together with no other fires to put out, figuratively and literally, seems like a novelty. You’ve been waiting a long while to spend this kind of quality time together, and you’ve planned ahead for the occasion.
The week before you popped into Skalet Family Jewelers in Old Sacramento. They’ve been in the jewelry business since the late 1800s, slightly longer than you’ve had children (although it doesn’t seem like it!). After looking at nearly every piece of jewelry in the shop, you found it: a matching pair of diamond-encrusted gold rings, the perfect symbol of your commitment to each other.
“It’s been one hell of an adventure,” you tell your spouse upon presenting the gift. “I’ve loved every minute of it.”
You spend the afternoon making mad, passionate love. Then your significant other drives out to pick up the kids at the lake.
“You’ll never guess what happened!” your youngest says upon returning home, breathlessly reciting the events of the day on the lake: the capsizing of the kayak, the near drowning of your oldest kid.
You’ve been worried about the older one: the scuffles with playmates, the random acts of vandalism, the “accidental” burning down of the shed. But something is different now. After the brush with death, reality has set in. The fire has gone out of the older one’s eyes. You breathe a sigh of relief.
Your first born has finally become an adult.
Lucky you! You realized that pulling a Jackson Pollock yawn all over your special somebody’s shoes might be a pretty good indicator that you’re way too unhinged to drive. It’s OK, because you’re about to have the best cab ride of your entire life.
“Where you heading?” the driver asks after pulling over to the curb.
“How ’bout there?” you grin, pointing to an advertisement for Gold Club Centerfolds in the cab.
The driver’s some minor-league philosopher and gives you one of the weirder running commentaries on local history while cruising Highway 50, something about gray alien experiments on Republican-politician brains at Mather Air Force Base. It’s strange, but focusing on his words, and the frightening image of John Doolittle getting a Zeti Reticulan lobotomy, sobers you up a bit. When you get to Rick’s, you hand the driver a wad of cash, mutter thanks and enter the strip club.
And hot damn if those strippers aren’t looking hotter than a modern-day Salome tempting the kiddies in Vacation Bible School to a lifetime of wanton debauchery. One Jezebel in particular catches your eye, and you seem to have caught hers, too. She motions you to a private VIP area, and somewhere in the whirlwind of romance you hand over your credit card and she commences to ride your pony. Here’s where it gets complicated, because you still have enough booze in your system to where you think you’re making one of those profound connections, and you’re pretty sure that she feels the same way about you. But still, in the back of your mind, you have the gnawing perception that she’s really toying with you to milk you for all the disposable cash she can get her fake-nailed stripper hands on.
Looks like you’ve got yet another decision to make. You could fall in love with your new special private dancer and live happily every after. You could max out your Visa buying lap dances. Or what the hell. You could do both. It beats the tar out of being alone.