By Roxanne
According to poets, my doctor and my mom, too much of anything is bad for you. I have debated this. I guess if I ate too much chocolate cake, I would feel sick, get fat and possibly die of diabetes. If I had too much money, I could help the world with my never-ending cash flow; though I also must admit that too many notes could also possibly just transform me into becoming lazy and spoiled.
We could debate for days on how having too much of anything could affect your life for better or, likely, for worse; but I am getting off topic. I was actually going to tell you about the night that I thought too much “joy stick” may not be so joyous – something I did not expect to ever think or – in this case – run from.
He seemed like an average dude when I first spotted him.
It was a quiet Tuesday night. My friend and I were two of the dozen people in the bar we frequented after work. I had had a long day full of tedious encounters. Boredom makes me reckless and stress makes me randy, so I scanned the 10 faces in the bar, to see if any of them might provide a healthy distraction for the night. Nope. I might’ve felt desperate for a night-time adventure, but not so desperate that that “old comb-over” guy or “creepy-skinny” man could get the opportunity.
Then “average dude” walked in. He wasn’t great looking, but he was cute; and when I talked to him, he wasn’t exciting, but he was nice enough. So a few drinks later, I thought I’d show “average dude” an above-average time of his life.
It turned out that it was I who was going to get a huge dose of above-average sumn-sumn. I’ll skip through to where “average dude” displayed his special gifts. I was speechless. I thought I had seen my fair share of talents – great and small – but his was seriously something that belonged in a special museum.
When it comes to an extremely “tiny situation” – no matter how unsatisfying – you tend to be able to work with it. But looking at this giant male-NESS, all I thought was, “I haven’t played enough levels of this game to meet the Mega Boss.” So I smartly took the advice of the poets, my doctor and my mom that “too much of anything is bad for you” and I politely told “average guy” with the “not-so-average package” that I couldn’t handle it.
On my way out, I wondered, “What kind of woman could?”
