Freddie Retires From Sex

For the first time in my life, I'm retired from sex and women. I'm done with sex. I've had it. I'm finished with women.

Officially, this is my first time retiring from sex and from women. That's right, you read it correctly. I'm retiring from sex and women for the first time in my life. I feel free from the hold that women have had on me throughout my entire life. My mind is cleansed from the dirty and nasty thoughts of what I wanted to do with every woman who I ever met. Sorry, Ma, for thinking impure thoughts about you, too.

No longer will I part with my time. No longer will I part with my money. No longer will I share my feelings of love and open my heart and be vulnerable to any woman just to get her in bed...naked...naked and bound...and naked, bound, and blindfolded. It's over. Romance is gone from my mind, eliminated from my heart, and vacated from the front of my pants.

No longer must I have to steam iron my pants to remove the evidence of the pup tent of horniness that overtook me at the supermarket, the mall, and at work. With lust for women removed from my thoughts, I'll have time to think of more important things, such as outfitting that Ford F250 Super Duty truck. All that money I spent on flowers is better spent on beer. Hey, now I can afford the imported brands.

No longer will I undress women with my eyes, been there, done that, and seen one, seen them all. No longer will I gift wrap kneepads, blindfolds, and handcuffs as thoughtful Christmas, birthday, and anniversary gifts. From now on, I will give kitchenware, pots and pans to my casual acquainted women, but not potholders and aprons, no, never potholders and aprons. I had a girlfriend who...never mind.

So, why did I write that this is the first time that I'm retiring from sex? I'm a realist. Just as I know that this first time won't be the last time, I know that this first retirement time from sex and from women won't last.

I know I'll slip with the sight of perfect cleavage or a shapely thigh. I know my knees will buckle and my will power crumble when I see a shapely woman wearing a short, tight, blow me dress. I know that I'm addicted. I know my spirit is strong, but my flesh is weak. All that it may take for my hips to reflexively begin humping is to see a women bending over in front of me at the mall or actually to see a woman is enough for my hips to start gyrating, but no more.

"Oh, hear me Lord. Give me the strength to cast away Satan, along with the images of Pamela Anderson's pretty face and perfect tits, Angelina Jolie's voluptuous body and full lips, and those scantily clad naïve and helpless women on Survivor. Hear my prayer, Oh Lord. I beseech you to give me the strength to stand flaccid against feminine temptation. Amen."

From this moment on, when a woman asks me, "Is that a roll of quarters in your pants or are you happy to see me?"

I can reach down deep in my pocket, pullout a roll of quarters from my pants, and laugh in her face.

"It's a roll of quarters, you sexy, siren slut. Now, take whatever you're peddling and peddle it somewhere else with someone else, sister. Oh, sorry, Sis, I didn't know that was you."

I'm doing my best to make my stand and free myself from imagining white cotton, bikini, thong, silk, and pastel colored, satin panties. No longer will I think about perky little 32A's, a handful of 34B's, a double mouthful of 36C's, thank you God 38D's, and (gulp) stripper sized 40DD's tits. Now, those numbers to me are not bra sizes, but are just numbers that the quarterback calls before the snap of the ball when I yell, "Go long!" or the Priest calls out before I yell, "Bingo!"

Now, when I think of silicon implants, I'll think of semi-conductor devices inserted in computers and not two perfect, globular mounds of surgically enhanced breasts created by the skillful hands of a God-like plastic surgeon who shares his artistic talents for both the betterment of womankind and mankind. Sorry, I digress. I'm dizzy thinking about breast implants. I need smelling salts. No, never mind, no smelling salts. They'll make me think of saline implants.

To me, the words shaved, bushy, and trimmed will no longer recall the images of succulent pussies, but haircuts, hedges, and lawns. I'm done thinking about firm tits that make my eyes cross and shaved, trimmed, and full bushes that make my cock hard. No more will I stare at a round ass that makes me follow her out of the subway, around the corner, and forever. Gone is the image of pink, puffy nipples that makes me a fan of Eli Whitney, his cotton gin, and because of him, the possibility of having wet t-shirt contests in Margaritaville with Jimmy Buffet's songs playing in the background.

Erased from my thoughts are long shapely legs that promise a gateway to paradise tonight, but in reality with pregnancy and marriage looming real and large, as a lifelong consequence, are a slippery sloping slide to Hell's inferno tomorrow. Nevermore will I be a sucker for bright blue, deep hazel, and big brown eyes that mesmerize me. With the disappearance of depraved sexual thoughts that made me want to confess to a priest, pucker up your red pouting lips and blow because I'm not buying it anymore, baby. You can take your lush blonde, silky red, mahogany brown, and blue black hair that I imagine you tossing while you are...never mind. God, this is so hard! I'm so hard.

Quick! Someone show me a full color nude photo of Madeline Albright and/or Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I need a full dose of horribly ugly to set my mind free of the evil charms of women.

To be continued...