So, um, whataya like?

By: Joseph Walther

This week’s topic is going to be a bit touchy because it involves… well, sex. There! I said it. I’ll wait a few seconds while some of you regain your composure. I had planned to write about muon decay and its role in supporting the idea of relativistic time dilation. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, along came Mr. Smut, replacing cerebral insight with visceral absorption.

Two things occurred this past week that SCREAMED at me—figuratively, of course—to write about such ungodly filth. I know some of you will be upset, but we MUST have this talk, because both occurrences validated, beyond a reasonable doubt, the adage, “Ya never know.”

First, I ran into a former neighbor at a lunch counter this past Wednesday afternoon. Seymour (not his real name) lived next door to me for about 5-years, around 10-years ago. Once we got through our respective “nice to see you” routines, I asked him how his wife was. Maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll learn just to shut the hell up!

He said, “She walked out on me two weeks ago and she’s going to file for a divorce.” I asked him what happened. He took the next 30-minutes to explain.

“I’ve always arrived home from work first; so, I always picked up the mail,” he told me. He continued to explain that he must have missed an item the last time around. His wife, for some reason, checked the mailbox later on and found the phone bill.

He explained, on and on and on, that when she opened it, she discovered a bill for $679, the bulk of which was the result of numerous calls to a 900-area code sex line. Wait! It gets even dumber.

When she called the number to check it out, she found out that it was a gay sex line. When she confronted him, he confessed everything, including the fact that he’d been doing it for several months, yet another indication that the point on Seymour’s mental pencil had broken off.

Then, looking at me as though he thought I was the reincarnation of Clarence Darrow, he asked me if I thought that she could actually obtain a divorce on the grounds of infidelity because, as he put it, he really didn’t “do nothing” but talk to a guy on the phone.

I’m not an attorney-at-law and I told him so. “But, Delaware is a no fault divorce state,” I explained. “Wifey-poo doesn’t have to prove infidelity. Either irreconcilable differences or irretrievable breakdown will do quite nicely,” I said.

I also told him that I thought a judge would probably side with his wife, especially in light of the fact that he (the husband) had demonstrated, quite effectively, a preference for the pole rather than the hole, if you get my drift.

No matter how you look at it, in my opinion, disputing the existence of physical infidelity, on the part of married people who engage in phone sex—gay or straight—with someone other than their spouses, is an exercise in visceral gymnastics of the dumbest kind.

In addition to “irretrievable breakdown,” his wife should also include stupidity as further justification for the divorce. There’s not a judge in the country that wouldn’t agree, unless the judge also owns a 900-gay sex phone number OR, frequents one.

I don’t condemn anyone for being gay because I don’t believe it’s a conscious choice. And, even if it is, it’s no one’s business as long as the parties are legally consenting adults acting within the confines of physical privacy. However, here is a man who paid almost $700 for “pretend” gay sex. He did nothing more than fantasize about having sex with another man… OVER THE PHONE… for 700 smackeroos! How dumb can it get?

Why was it so stupid? In northern New Castle County, Delaware, he could have had the “real” thing for around $50, including drinks and the price of a motel room! And, while his wife would have eventually found out about his activities, it would not have been through an overlooked phone bill left in the mailbox. Yep, in this case, stupidity is definitely sound reasoning behind the divorce.

Next, this past Friday afternoon, I was in a popular bookstore, the name of which begins with the letter “B.” A woman, perhaps in her early to mid-50s, and I were browsing some books on a stack directly in front of one of those seating/reading areas. Two 40ish-looking men (Harry and Kyle), seated next to each other on one of the sofas, were attempting to have a whispered conversation. Apparently, they had made contact on the Internet and agreed to meet at this particular bookstore.

Neither of them appeared to be adept at whispering, though. It was virtually impossible for her and me not to hear their dialog, as they discussed several distasteful details. It was quite a tête-à-tête, involving a potentially imminent melding of the heads, the ones without the brains, of course.

They discussed, in vivid detail, their respective sexual likes and dislikes, which one of them would be doing what to the other one, the pace at which they’d be doing it, and the fact that Kyle was not willing to do it in Harry’s van out of a fear of the police catching them. They agreed to split the price of motel room and headed out to the parking lot.

Nora—her real name—looked at me and asked if we should report them to the information desk. I asked her why. She told me that there were kids running all over the bookstore and she was concerned with their safety.

I replied, “Nora, these two pose no danger to children. They may even be married with children of their own. Perhaps they’re pathetic, socially inept, deeply closeted homosexuals in a desperate search for mutual sexual relief, but they’re not pedophiles. Neither of them fits the profile: a 40-something, heterosexual, likely married male.”

In fact, as we looked around us, we could not help but notice a much larger number of innocent appearing, straight acting, 40-something men, each a possible pedophilic predator. The thought sure did scare the hell out of ME!

Anyway, she acknowledged that I was probably right and we continued to talk about various things until she realized the time. “It’s been great talking to you. My husband is supposed to meet me at Boscov’s,” she said.

As she started to walk away, she turned back toward me and, with a devious wink, asked, “By the way, what do YOU like?” I winked back and asked her if she had a van.

I’ll be back next week. In the meantime, be wary of people driving vans. I think it might be an indication of some borderline sexual thing! I’m going to check into it and let you know what I find.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.