Why it’s a big mistake to assume that a fit, attractive partner will automatically translate into a superior sexual experience.
Everyone is out there trying to fuck well above their grade. It’s the reason so many average-looking people have celebrity crushes, while they have a beer-bellied mutant sleeping in their bed. If they could snag a perfect ten, they certainly would. But no, the universe, being all mysterious and mean, dictates that the homely almost never share the sheets with anything more than a high five. These are the rules. Just look at your friends’ relationships and you’ll notice that they never really seem to stray from a certain level of attractiveness. You don’t either. This is not by choice, this is fate.
And yet, drawing from all that mysterious jibber-jabber mentioned above, the universe occasionally hands us a gift, providing us with the opportunity to mingle in the presence of the sexual illuminati and bone someone totally out of our league. Several years ago, I unwittingly entered this sacred dimension. It was at an after-party down the street from the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel in Los Angeles, where we were celebrating the release of an independent film that I was part of. Several well-known actresses were there, as were a handful of porn stars, artists and punk-rock socialites. With the booze flowing freely and everyone wearing drunkenness as the fashion of the evening, the room kind of lost touch with who they were and went slumming. It wasn’t long before I warmed up to this stunning porn actress (who shall remain anonymous) who I could never, under any other circumstances, talk to, much less anything else. She looked like Jenna Jameson circa 1994. Completely untouchable by the likes of me–a short, bald dude from Redneckville, Indiana. However, whatever mystic was at the helm of the evening was gracious enough to throw me a bone.
And I was going to throw one back.
I was prepared to enter the vaginal Valhalla. You see, our gut reaction in the moments before we’re about to get it on with a perfect ten is that it’s going to be the best night of our lives. There was no way such a smoking-hot specimen of humankind, seemingly manufactured in a glamor factory somewhere in Southern California, wouldn’t be the absolute best sex we’ve ever had. If it were a horse race instead of a hookup, I’d bet the entire family inheritance on that son of a gun to win, and I wouldn’t even get nervous in the final stretch.
