There are men you hear about who claim to have slept with over a thousand women. Wilt Chamberlain boasted of over 20,000 supposed conquests, making you wonder if his nickname ‘The Big Dipper’ had more to do with these exploits than with his height. There may be some legitimacy to the claims of such men due to their notoriety, but I always suspect them or their publicists of putting a bit more shine on the truth than it might deserve.
That said, you never hear of a woman bragging about how many sex partners she has had. Sure, sex workers clearly do a lot of heavy lifting during their careers and there is that escort from Down Under who says she had over 10,000 clients over a 15 year period.
Such an example leads one to conclude that economics likely is the universal driver for sexual hyper-activity in women; in contrast to men marinating in envy-provoking testosterone and hyperbole.
This is what I thought until I met Drusilla.
‘Hello, Sailor. I just knew you would be back,’ she cast.
‘Pardon me if I’m confused,’ I heeded, at stand-by but ready to reverse.
‘You have unfinished business here,’ she sang, fixing me with sirenic eyes.
‘Pardon me if I’m now more confused,’ I stalled over my heart’s chop.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she hooked. ‘Every time you come over to this side, you hang around in front like you can’t make your mind up. I’m happy for you though that you’ve decided to come in this time. Why should all those other men have all the fun? My name’s Drusilla, by the way.’
It may be possible to love a goddess, but all the old stories say it never ends well. This assumes you even survive the terror of the initial encounter, after you have silently agreed to the irrevocable gaff sinking into your gills.
What next? How long will this go on? Through how many lives?
My bodhi bitch got me good. For bad or worse, it was something I had longed for, prayed for, and it was given.
Drusilla guts me expertly and polishes me all shiny clean inside.