I got a comment earlier this week that said something like, "Maybe if you put out more you wouldn't be so bitter."
Hmm. Do I really seem bitter? I'm definitely bitter sometimes, but not daily or even weekly.
I do firmly believe that if everyone had good sex regularly the world would be a much more peaceful place. There would be less bitterness, less strife. Seriously.
Maybe I'll screen print a t-shirt that says "regular sex for world peace" or something of the sort. But then that might lead to "aberrant sex for world peace" or who knows where.
On a side bar: A friend of mine correlates her luck finding street parking with what's going on in her personal life. When she's having regular sex, she never finds parking. So when she's having a streak of rock-star parking, she knows she's screwed in the sex department. Or, actually, not.
But back to the putting out and bitterness business. Because what does "putting out" imply?
When I think of the expression "putting out," fun is not what comes to mind. Like, if he'd suggested that I need to get laid regularly, that would be a whole different story. I'd say well, sure, who doesn't?
So I was thinking, I suppose this commenter thinks I should've put out for the crazypants (my favorite new term) journalist. Because that would that have made the whole aggravating date worth it and made me so much less bitter about being called repeatedly and angrily in the next couple days.
So, in the fictional "putting out" version of the evening, I've had a dreadful time on the defensive at dinner, and he's pushy and I know I don't want to kiss him, even though he's trying to get me to. What I want, most of all, is to take back the hand that he is firmly clasping, get the goodbye over with and go home.
But then suddenly it hits me! Ooh! Ooh! I know! Oh my god! I know exactly what will make this evening suddenly fun! I'll put out!
And in my imaginary putting out version? It's just like being a missionary wife on one of those British ships bound for America in the 1800s.
You know - you're a little seasick and uncomfortable. You're tired of the same old food, tired of the ocean for miles on end in every direction, tired of having the same old conversations.
And come to think of it, you're pretty sick and tired of your missionary husband. But you're stuck with him, because you know, you're living in an age where women are chattel and all you can do is get married and stick it out.
And so, when night falls, and you say your missionary prayers and get in bed...and it's time for you to put out, you go ahead and do what all good missionary wives are told to do for God, Queen and country.
You reluctantly pull up your Victorian nightgown, close your eyes, and think of England.
Put out more, my ass.