The Probability of Getting Laid

I found that decision tree analysis was the most effective tool in determining the probability of getting laid again by a certain guy. Actually, I referred to him in an earlier post as "Monkey Boy."

Monkey Boy was a mercurial little monster. At that time, I had around 3 different lovers scattered around NYC and Astoria. And Monkey Boy tucked away upstate New York for those occasional weekend romps. Yes, I was a busy little bee. I was unusually attracted to him. Unusually in that nothing about the guy appealed to me. Except the sex. Even that came about in a convoluted way.

I met Monkey Boy through his friend, my very first boyfriend, Zippo.
Zippo and I dated when I was thirteen going on fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday, Zippo gave me an ID bracelet which he subsequently demanded when we broke up two weeks later. My father acted as intermediary and witnessed firsthand what he did.

"Oh boy," said Dad upon entering the house minutes after giving Zippo the bracelet at the parking lot.

"What do you mean by 'oh boy'," I asked, impatient to hear what happened.

Dad shook his head. "The son of a bitch had a hammer and smashed it to smithereens."

I was devastated. It didn't help any that at the beginning of every subsequent summer, like clockwork Zippo appeared at the house with a new girl in tow. The first time he did that, I was taken aback, especially when they made out in front of me.

"Mom, what was the point of that?" I asked, puzzled. At fourteen going on fifteen, I didn't understand boys. 

Mom flashed me one of her Mona Lisa smiles. If she clued me in then, it wouldn't have taken me forty years to figure out that Zippo never got over me.

Zippo's annual pilgrimage continued for nearly fifteen years. Then I had a twenty year break until he popped up again, weathered, beaten and pickled from his alcoholism. Four years ago I bumped into him and he took me for a joy ride, ending up at a dive bar where I met Monkey Boy.

First impressions are important to me. I can clearly see the guy for who he is. Thereafter, my judgement gets cloudy from getting immersed in nonsense and I waiver, giving him the benefit of the doubt. When the dust settles, I see the guy clearly once more. Monkey Boy looked like a frigging monkey the first time I saw him. He was dumb beyond belief and I had absolutely nothing to say to him. I even bored myself in the conversation that trickled down to nothing. Needless to say, I made a lasting impression. I left with Zippo who returned me home, safe and sound. Incidentally, I NEVER did anything with Zippo other than exchange a few kisses when I was thirteen going on fourteen.

Months later I met Monkey Boy again on someone's boat with a gang of fools. For some reason, I thought he was gay. He asked me what I did for a living. "Banker," I responded.

"I work for a restaurant," he said, "and we'll sell your pies."

I said, "No, banker."

It took three attempts before he recognized there was a difference. That's when I realized we met before. He pulled out a joint and invited us to smoke. This is the insane part: I hadn't smoked pot since I was a teenager. I'm one of those giddy trippy women who barely have one foot planted so getting stoned never appealed to me - I feared falling off the planet. Yet, this one time, the first time in 38 years, I said yes. 


I took two tokes and got blitzed. I wasn't the only one: the other people on the boat reeled as well! After we docked, which took at least five tries as the captain was stoned out of his mind, I followed my new gay friend to his place. We got involved in a conversation about mountain biking which basically was, "What kind of bike do you ride?" endlessly repeated. Somehow, I took him out on my boat, driving as erratically as Hasidim boat renters. It was a miracle I didn't smack it up when I zoomed into the boathouse. Later, we walked back to his place where we got into his car and drove to a nearby restaurant for dinner. I remember tossing crudite at him. He also ate half my meal. Geez, what is it with men always eating my food? Then we returned to his place and I watched tv, sprawled on my new gay friend's couch.

He sat next to me and bent down to give me a long, drawn out kiss. My eyes bulged. WTF? This was my new gay friend! After, he said, "Wow, I just couldn't bear the sexual tension."


Here I was snackered, barely comprehensible. All I wanted to do was watch a Drop Dead Diva repeat with  my new gay friend who just made out with me. One thing led to another. The next thing I knew, he was deep inside me, pumping away while my feet were propped on the sofa table in front. Like a series of cascading pictures, I vaguely recall being butt naked in his bed with him pumping deep inside me. Then, on my stomach with him pumping deep inside me. I remember it felt good. I remember having great orgasms. Then again, he could've severed a leg and it would've felt good. The last memory consisted of staggering home and falling face down on my bed for twelve hours. 

Two days later, I bumped into captain of the boat. "Was it my imagination or was that pot laced with something?"

The boat captain said, "I don't know what was in that, but only this morning I got my bearings. Knowing that guy, it was definitely treated with chemicals. I don't even remember the past two days."

"That's reassuring. For a moment there, I thought it was me!"

I saw him later that day. And that evening, without getting stoned, I had sex with him again. This time, I was drunk. He offered a few glasses of wine which I tossed back. Incidentally, I've no tolerance at all to alcohol. The thing is, I'm not much of a drinker either. I avoid alcohol because (this is a very strange admission) it gives me gas. Actually, everything gives me gas. I blame it on my mother's cooking as she infused everything with garlic, onions and the musical vegetables ruining my stomach for perpetuity. Which is why my diet is spartan without spices and only fresh veggies, fruit and lean meat as well as 7-grain artisan bread. The few times I deviate, I suffer.

Anyhow, that night the sex was magical despite stomach cramps. Then again, I vaguely recall anything outside the few big O's. This time, he drove me home.

That's when I got hooked on the sex. Not actually the sex, mind you, the concept of having sex while I was sober to see whether "Golden Cock" (my appellation) was really that good. I thought he was that good while inebriated. I think he guessed that as well. Because each successive time he plied me with drinks. That should've been a tell right there.

Anyhow, I began to recognize a pattern outside of my newly found alcoholism. When I wanted to have sex, he was never available. It was solely on his terms, infrequent at best and usually after copious consumption of wine. That's when I came up with the idea of making the decision tree analysis. My girlfriend thought I was nuts.

"No, it simplifies things," I insisted. "No matter how I see it, there's an 80% rate of getting laid again. And this time I'm gonna be sober. Look at all the variables!"

I took into account various scenarios. She rolled her eyes. I even made a branch where I ended it and there was still a 65% chance of getting him back in bed. This time, I vowed, I'd be stone sober.

It actually occurred. We avoided each other for a while. It had something to do with what I said a few days after the first time. His friends asked me if we slept together. I said, "Why not? He's young, great body, good in bed and has a large cock."

When he heard that, he flipped out. I was drunk and withstood his ranting and raging. "Unlike you, I keep my personal life personal."

"What's your problem?" I asked. "I gave you a ringing endorsement." I patted the bed and he shut up.

The very next day he went boating with his friends and had to take a pee. More than likely he was stoned because he urinated from the boat. His friend asked, "How's the temperature in the lake?"

He went ballistic. To punish me, he didn't phone for a long time. I stopped drinking and dated someone else in NYC. Besides, I felt confidant, hell, 85% confidant that he'd contact me again according to my decision tree analysis. During this time, he must've gotten over his snit fit because he texted me and came over as I readied to go to bed. My dream came true: sex without alcohol. Yes, Golden Cock truly was golden. Yet, halfway through, I suddenly got bored. I realized that there was no connection - no emotional or intellectual ties to keep my interest. No wonder I had to be drunk as all get go.

He, on the other hand, came to a different conclusion as to who I was in his life. All this time I thought I was the booty call whereas he considered us in a relationship.

He said, "Let's not let anyone know we're together again."

I agreed. "Definitely."

"I just can't take the teasing." In my bedroom, he stood there puzzled. "Wait. You really don't want anyone to know?"

I responded, "Well, my boyfriend's coming up and I don't want anyone to say anything."

"Your boyfriend?" he shrieked. While pointing at the bed, he yelled, "What just happened here?"

"Sex," I responded.

Who knew?

Well, the decision tree analysis proved right. I ended whatever it was with two simple words, "I'm done." Sure enough, months later guess who came knocking at my door? 65% accuracy.

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This blog and all the posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


Stacey Roberts said...

Maura Stone knows why we laugh. Lines like this: "What do you do for a living?" Reply: "Banker," Monkey Boy: "I work for a restaurant. We'll sell your pies."

We laugh because things like this do happen, the same way men never get over certain women, even after smashing the iconic bracelet.

Now I want to see a post about Hasidim boat renters. You KNOW there's a story there...

maura stone said...

Don't get me started. BTW - I saw the boat rental guy. He said, "I purposefully send all my Hasidic boat rentals to your home so they can smash into your dock." I KNEW IT! Here's a little tidbit: he's Zippo's younger brother.