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“I think there are only a limited amount of orgasms to be had in life,” my girl friend said to me.

“Is there like a PETA equivalent for sexual cruelty? Why would you just say that to me?” I was panicking.

“I am serious!” she insisted.

“So am I. Seriously, delete my number from your phone and take me off your Christmas card list. We are no longer friends.”

Her hypothesis threw my entire life objective into disarray. I have always reasoned that in the absence of money, friends, employment and love, I would at least be able to Come on demand. What if, like my scotch bottles, I found myself empty? The reality was too much to bare.

“Well,” I slunk into my chair and lit my ninth cigarette. “Maybe they should invent an Orgasm TiVo so we can start prerecording them in case of an emergency.”

 

With a looming deadline and a [hypothetical] diary filled with commitments and responsibilities, I decided to abdicate from it all and stay home for the day so that I didn’t have to get dressed. 

“How is the thesis coming along?” Boy friend asked me via a phone call.

“I am hypothesising Naked Thesis Writing to see if it changes anything and makes my word count go from the current eight to the desired ten thousand.”

“You have written eight thousand words already?” he exclaimed, clearly ignoring the effort I put into my outfit. 

“No. Eight. The singular eight. Six if you don’t count my name. But I do.”

I sat at my secluded balcony dressed in my birthday suit, smoking breakfast, starting to panic that I may not get my thesis completed in time.

“Focus,” I told myself. “You just need to focus.”

 

My vibrator broke after I passed out and left it on all night.

“Did you change the batteries?” Everyone asked after I declared that men were easier to work than a battery operated device.

“Of course,” I scoffed.

At ten o’clock in the morning, exhausted after an hour of steady thesis writing (read: catching up on celebrity blogs), I decided to investigate the situation. Girl Friends decision that there are less orgasms than grains of sand in the world was still weighing on my bare shoulders and strutting around naked had made me feel like something was missing from my day.

I found My First Vibe next to other items I have discarded because I assumed they didn’t work. I threw aside a vodka bottle and a mini-skirt to find the vibrator resting against a stuffed monkey I don’t recall buying.

 

“The thesis writing is not going according to plan,” I Blackberry messaged LA girl friend, my oracle of acceptance and encouragement.

“What happened??” She replied, concerned in only a way a text message can convey.

“Well…see…I discovered why my vibrator wasn’t working properly.”

“Go on…”

“It takes two batteries. Not one.”

There isn’t a day more depressing than the one where you realize that not only are you incapable of working a fully grown, adult male, but you are also don’t know how to work a vibrator.

Fortunately, I found a way to cheer myself up.

 

Stephen King is a prolific writer because he allocates four hours every day to nothing but creating prose. I spent double that time masturbating.

 

A day of unintended yet intense research put me in a strangely perky mood to inform my girl friend that her hypothesis was wrong.

“What are you giggling about?” She sneered when she could finally get a word in, forty-five seconds after I called.

“There are not a limited amount of orgasms in the world,” I sung to her.

“Are you fucking slow? We had this conversations weeks ago and it took you that long to come up with such a lame response?”

Nothing could get my mood down.

“No. But I finally had time to spend my day to proving you wrong. In fact, I have done nothing but spend the past eight hours proving you wrong. I’m really quite tired.” 

“Did you ever consider that you just used everything up?”

I spent the next hour ensuring that my mood or orgasms weren’t going anywhere.

 

Physically exhausted from the most academically sound day I have had in months, I slunk into my chair to watch a pre-recorded episode of The Golden Girls.

It felt like someone had invented a portal to my life in forty years time.