Remember The Time

Remember The Time

Speaking of cleaning…my mother asked me a left-field question the other day (as she often does). “You don’t remember when y’all were kids and we had a cleaning lady, do you?” [I live for these questions.] Actually Ma, I do.  Her name was Tep, right? Vietnamese, short, very plain and personable–I remember this despite the fact that it was 20+ years ago and I had little to no interaction with her. There wasn’t anything special she did to instill this memory. It’s just how my mind works. Now ask me if I remember something more recent–more intimate even. Go ‘head and ask me if I can remember all of the women I’ve had sex with. Well I’m glad you asked–but not really. And not because of the quantity (okay, maybe has somethin’ to do with it) nor the quality. The reality is, I can’t remember some of them for the very same reason I can remember our Vietnamese housekeeper. It’s just how my mind works.

I understand how this could be troubling to women. And to those who got lost in the caverns of my memory, I sincerely empathize. So let me thread a needle to repair the seams of your esteem. It’s really not your fault. Oh, wait–that’s sounds way too much like some Steve Harper/Hill Harvey panderation [no typo]. *Note to self: I must be punished. To some degree it is your fault. Because it’s YOU who is unreasonably expecting to be remembered. Let’s look at it this way, I’m pretty sure that Tep the housekeeper forgot about me the day after her last check cleared. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. And I’m not the least bit offended by that. In fact, the only reason I remember her is [drumroll] she cleaned up our house–which meant I didn’t have to. That’s the reason she still exists so vividly in my memory, she did dishes, mopped and vacuumed floors and left the place smelling like Lysol. Her vacuum game > your vaginal game. She mops up the floor with you, literally.

Does this mean that you won’t be remembered without providing some form of ancillary services in addition to inducing orgasms? Not necessarily (though it wouldn’t hurt you to do a load of laundry or three). But it may mean you have to change you perspective a little. For instance, I am fairly certain that every woman I’ve ever copulated with vividly recalls the overwhelming joy and delight of the climatic climb to the top of Mt. O. But I am more certain that I don’t give half a damn if they do (though I would also forever acknowledge them as pathological liars if they tried to deny anything other than the heavens opened and angels sang them into a blissful, post-coital slumber). While many women tragically use sex as a “reward” to be earned, I look at it as if I’m fulfilling a custom delivery order. We don’t always remember rewards, and some are rather forgettable, but we will always remember that which we want. And on top of that, I’m not naive enough to believe that I’m remembered because of intercourse alone. Personality is long-lingering experience.

Women often employ a willfully selective memory when it comes to sex. “I didn’t count those times because: I was young. I was drunk/high. It was over too fast. It was just head. It was just the tip. Blah-blah, yackity-schmackity…” If you added the number of sexual encounters and separated them by gender, the figures would be skewed by the millions. Men typically count it all–the good, bad, ugly and combinations thereof. Some men even count encounters that never actually happened. So how do you make your lying down stand-out amongst the masses of asses? You could try not arbitrarily lying down in the first place. But I’m not an advocate of less sex, and I’m assuming that you’ve already decided to go “all in.” So if it bruises your ego to know you might not be computed in the statistics, give him a memory upgrade. Treat every time like the first time. (Everybody remembers their first time.) Share fantasies. (Or make new ones together.) Role play. (Why save the dress-up for Halloween?) Change the scenery. (If you’re going to blow him after the movie date, don’t wait, do it in the car–or better still, in the theater.) But whatever you do, don’t act like you’re doing him a favor by doing him.

Remember: Easy cum. Easy go.

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