There is a scene in the film 40 Days and 40 Nights in which Josh Hartnett brings Shannyn Sossamon to orgasm with only a flower.
This scene is bullshit. I have sent lovers home with hands still-twisted into awkward, cramped positions because they insisted on getting me off. Then there are those long, lonely, horny nights, when I just want to cum so the voice in my head will shut the fuck up and go to sleep. My arm feels like it is about to fall off, one ass-muscle is spasming from fatigue, and when I finally get there it is the sexual equivalent of losing a qualifier match with a nil-nil score: Dead-on-arrival and disappointing like when you blow your hardest on a vuvuzela and all that comes out is a sad and strangled, farting sound.
I refuse to believe that Josh Hartnett, who let’s face it, is as sexy as giggling kittens, could get any woman there with Lexington Steele’s dick, let alone a flower. And so expertly that God looked on, saw that it was good and said, So sweet, I forgive you for breaking thine Lenten vows.
No. I feel dirty just thinking about it.
Still, there is something to be said for anticipation; “Sexpectation”, if you will. Those moments before a good night out when you are drinking your Guinness in the shower or slipping on your fuck-me knickers and imagining, in lurid, high-def, digital detail the things you are going to do to that boy as soon as you find a dark-enough corner.
Anticipation like walking around at work with your nipples hard, chafing against the inside of your bra because you are really clicking with someone new, and they have promised to serve you dinner tonight wearing an apron and only an apron.
Sexpectation is the reason some young women wear tiny dresses when they go out and then “forget” their panties.
It is important. I salute all those good wait-for-it feelings because they are also the reason that men with beautiful, successful wives get caught fucking the buck-toothed, bow-legged housegirl. It is also the reason that the guy who is checking you out from the other end of the bar is infinitely sexier than the guy he will be six months from now, once you’ve found out that he gives lousy head and does not always bother to match his socks.
According to Schrodinger’s Pussy, before you walk into Boda Boda on 4/11 you both have and have not had the time of your life and unknowingly taken the Hitchhiker home for a night of wild sex. What? That doesn’t make any sense you say? Don’t argue with Quantum Mechanics. Get yourself to the Legendary Party tomorrow, you never know what may happen.
 Really, just me then? Damn.