Why am I not getting any?

DISCLAIMER : This stunt has been performed by highly trained personnel personally. I would like to strictly dissuade you from trying to replicate it, in part or in whole.

Having said that, let's get on with the business of writing this post. If the title has already not made it all too clear by now, then let me start by saying that this post is about sex (Did my blog TRP sky-rocket already ?!?) or rather the lack of it in my life. Yes, I admit it has come to this. The total lack of subjects to write has forced my hand into talking about the dismal state of my yet-to-begin sex life.

Did I just do that? Shoot my self in the foot, I mean. Perhaps, it is equally suicidal to admit the virginity of my twenty-something sexual self. I could always take the stand that I refuse to accept the dictates of a gender-warped world where a virgin woman is a good woman and a virgin man is a good-for-nothing man. Or perhaps I could say that I have been deliberately rebelling against my debauched peers by walking a morally higher ground. I could also say I have not met the right girl or that I've been saving myself (it's okay dear - you can laugh out loud). But in spite and despite all that, the truth remains that I am still untouched by female (I'll stick to being heterosexual for the purpose of simplicity) hands/feet/mouths and what not, for the most part. This is an effort to take stock of the situation, and perhaps, determine whether the diagnosis is fatal in deciding the fate of my sex life.

First let's see the physicality of the situation. It rests thus. I am well rounded, so my six packs are well hidden from normal view. The hair on my head seems to have taken a fancy for the ground and keeps eloping to meet its fiance. Other than these few points of note, I have no other feature which distinguish my appearance from other commonly, uncommon men.

Then comes the question of skills I suppose. Let's see now. I can probably prove that the square root of 2 is irrational. I can also make sense of Neruda in his language, and perhaps write better than monkeys-armed-with-pens in a couple of more. Other trifling things may include cooking a mean packet of instant noodles, a fetish for chocolate and ice-creams, and giving my immediate surroundings a make-over when the cleaning-fit seizes me. None of these, as far as I can comprehend, venture anywhere near the boundaries of lust. To further abet my crashing stock in Wall Street (or should I say Sensex?), I am, most certainly, shy. I also have a wrapped-maybe-but-very-strong sense of right, which keeps my libido in check at times when doing the wrong thing would have probably corrected the said anomaly. I am almost certain that I would faint of shock if a woman approached me with an "indecent proposal" (with due fan-ly respect to Demi Moore). But since the infinitesimally minute probability of such an event from coming to pass is practically non-existent I guess I am not passing-out any time soon. I cannot, for the life of me, separate out being intimate from being into somebody, so I guess one-night-stands are not my cuppa tea. Also, I cannot share the after-sex smoke in the bed (This is what comes of watching marathon runs of Sex in the City on HBO), because I am genetically prone to hating smoke (nothing personal).

So, I am not anatomically perfect and I am not smooth. Ah, but there is still more left to say. I am also lazy and narcissistic. I can pursue a woman only so much. If she says she's too busy to meet me five times in a row and then doesn't ever call back when given the option of call-me-when-you-are-free, then I have neither the energy nor the inclination to pursue such a ruse. My interpretation is simply that since I am not wanted, I'd rather go and watch Madagascar again. Call it the couch-potato syndrome but the couch does attract a lot of my attention, even if I always get to lie on it alone.

Though I doubt that adding "Desperate" before my name would spawn a popular sitcom, and that I could make my theatrical debut in a monologue on/by the male organ, I am quite sure of one thing. I don't have a clue about what I have been writing for the past hour. I am a strong believer of the natural selection paradigm, and since the urge to procreate is encoded into my chromosomes, I suppose I have to find a way to advance my species. Bother!

Notice, however, that I have not mentioned the "M" word anywhere. Obviously, men are not supposed to. For when being ruled by animalistic instincts, we are programmed into not thinking with our heads. So while you haggle over the price of that carton of rotten tomatoes you want to throw at me, I might as well go and help myself.