by Kristen Shaw

6.8 seconds. 6.8 seconds from the time he comes inside of me, until the time he is dressed and standing in the doorway, murmuring “I’ll call you”. 6.8 seconds. I counted the phrase “I’ll call you” in the 6.8 seconds because he was putting on his left shoe as he said it, so there was no way to separate them. It was simultaneous. Sort of like the other thing that happened about 16.8 seconds ago. I am getting out of bed and stumbling to the door, in my 4 glasses of wine fog, to be the bigger person and kiss him good bye. But he is gone. 6.8 seconds. Seriously. That has to be some kind of record. I notice that it is approximately 6.8 feet from my bedroom door to the entrance of my house. For some reason, this strikes me as hysterically funny, as I slide to the floor in uncontrollable laughter. I cry until tears come down my cheeks. I mean, laugh. I was laughing. Well, at least I am pretty sure I started out laughing. Although what was so funny? Now I can’t remember. Anyway, it is 4:06 am and I have had 4 glasses of wine and, well, lets give credit where credit is due, some pretty fucking fantastic sex. I have got to stop fucking married men. This also strikes me as funny, and I cry some more. This is pathetic. I am drunk on yet another Tuesday night and sitting in a hump on the hard cold floor of my foyer. I have been left by a married man I didn’t even want to date when he was single. I have learned a valuable lesson here, however, I reassure myself. I learned that there is a big difference between “practically divorced” and “divorced”. The main difference is that one of them is still married. And that one happens to live 3 houses down from me and sneaks over after his wife and child go to sleep, fucks me, and then 6.8seconds later is running down the street to sneak back into his house before they wake up.

I decide that the only rational thing to do at this time is find out what, exactly, the world record is for that kind of thing. I google “6.8 seconds” “orgasm” “leaving” and “home with wife”. The websites that come up are… well, lets just say disturbing, and leave it at that. There are some sick people in this world. However, no world record information is forthcoming. Which is really surprising considering what some of these websites are dedicated to. It is now 4:37am and I am sitting at my computer. I have no interest in the normal things one would do at this time. Online shopping, gambling, porn, ordering prescription narcotics from India. I ignore all the IM’s that are now littering my screen, since my google search including the word “orgasm” seems to have woken up every underage sex kitten known to mankind, and for only $2.99 a minute they are willing to let me watch them… well, lets just say “disturbing” doesn’t even start to cover it.

What am I doing? I am a powerful creator! I manifest my reality! I control my fate! I am most powerful in this very moment! I am reading my post-it notes that frame the computer screen, out loud. It strikes me that I placed them here, from my unconscious brilliance, knowing that I would need them in this very moment. I AM a most powerful creator! My head is starting to clear, and I feel an epiphany coming on. I hear Dr. Phil’s voice—as I frequently do, before moments of clarity. “You can’t acknowledge you have a problem, until you have one”. Or something like that. Something about a problem. “I have a problem, Dr. Phil”, I sob out loud to my computer screen filled with IM requests from girls named EZscrew, 2hot4u and Luvbigboys. I hear Dr. Phils dry Texas accent, as clear as the “Ping!” that informs me SexySuzy wants to chat with me. “You need to keep that Kitty in the cage, girl”, he says. What? I don’t know what my cat has to do…oh! He means that “Kitty”. Oh my God! He is so right! I don’t need to stop fucking married men, I need to stop fucking all men. Wow. I take a moment to realize that this thought has never actually formed itself in my brain before. Huh. So this is what they mean by “spiritual awakening”. I feel a sudden affinity for Judas or Noah or whoever that guy was that got the 10 commandments from God. In this moment, I know exactly what he must have felt. Only I did something really smart, something that Geronimo or whoever didn’t think of. I asked “How?” “How do I stop fucking men and still date them? And I don’t want to stop fucking them forever, just until I find my soulmate. Then, lots of fucking, please. But only with us, not with him and somebody else, and not--” I stopped because even my imaginary Dr. Phil wasn’t putting up with any more qualifying on my part. But as good as he is, he is not God, so I thought some explaining on my part was in order. I mean, I don’t want there to be any confusion on this point. I am willing to put Kitty in the kennel until my Mr. Right shows up, but I am NOT willing to retire her for good. I mean, my kitty is just reaching her prime! I had to make sure Dr. Phil understood exactly what the situation was. Just because he was in my imagination didn’t mean he could read my mind.

And just like that guy Genesis or whoever, I heard the heavens part and the angels chant and the voice of Dr. Phil echoing through out my brain, as he said “Kitty can stay in the process, but she is now the last and final judge. She is not the welcoming committee.” (Boy, talk about having your whole perspective shift, in an instant)

And then, Dr. Phil proceeded to bestow upon me the 10 Commandments for Kitty. The 10 Commandments to answer the age-old question of “how do I stop fucking men while still dating them?” And just like Adam and Eve, or whoever, I felt an obligation to spread the word. So here I am, proclaiming the gospel according to Kitty. Or in accordance with Kitty. Whatever.

Commandment #1 Thou shalt not allow thy Kitty to be petted. (Not by anyone, until an agreement is reached that mine is the only Kitty he will be playing with. And he is the only one I’ll allow to be petting her. And we both mean it.)

Commandment #2 Thou shalt not take Kitty to the groomer. (That’s right, no shaving, waxing, creams or sprays. Nothing that makes Kitty look and smell pretty. Kitty is not to be played with, remember?)

Commandment#3 Thou shalt wear pantyhose. (Yep, those God-Awful things I swore would never again touch my body, after high school graduation. Hey, don’t get mad at me. Dr. Phil said it.)

Commandment #4 Thou shalt wear pants on all thy dates. (With the pantyhose underneath. There’s no getting out of that one.)

Commandment #5 Thou shalt only wear those panties that could reasonably be found on a random sampling of Grannies. (Across the US. Not LA grannies.)

Commandment #6 Thou shalt not have men in thy house. (Leave toenail clippings by the sofa, if you might be tempted.)

Commandment #7 Thou shalt embarrass thy Kitty. (There are plenty of products to assist you here. Most of them start with the word “Gyno”, and include such words as “itch”, “redness”,“rash”. Several large boxes placed on one’s nightstand should keep the Kitty from getting any action, no problem.)

Commandment #8 Thou shalt get Kitty a collar. (It’s a small round piece of plastic that serves the same function as the birth control pill, only it is inserted into your Kitty and left there. It is quite convenient. Except for having to explain to a potential beau, in the heat of passion, that you have a plastic object lodged inside of you.)

Commandment #9 Thou shalt not get drunk on thy dates. (Let’s face it, this rule alone will essentially keep Kitty quarantined.)

Commandment #10 Thou shalt not have sexual relations with married men who live 3 doors down and sneak out after their wife goes to sleep, to come see you. (Ok, maybe this one isn’t for everyone. But it sure has helped me!)

I am happy to report that since my wine-induced, Dr. Phil-assisted, born –again-virginity status, I have had 27 dates and my Kitty is learning to live without attention from any outside parties. She is none too happy about it. But I figure even that Je-sus guy, or whoever, had some difficulties adjusting. At least I have kept Commandment #10. And that’s made ALL the difference!