So, I went out to a downtown bar with some friends. My boy, Tim, drove. Let’s call a spade a spade; I’m hornier than a Boy Scout in a Bangkok jungle gym. I need to get laid — quick. At the bar, Tim talks to a group of ladies and I hit it off with one of them, Tracy. Tracy had the face of a mackerel and the bait in her mouth to prove it. However, she informs me that she just broke up with her boyfriend of four years and wants to live it up this summer. Finally! God has shown pity on me! A woman that thinks like a man. There is no greater green light in the singles fast lane than a woman who wants to “live it up” and toss aside her moral standing for a season. On the dance floor, her and I are grooving seductively to a Celine Dion song, but all the while, my attention is distracted by this vivacious feline that keeps locking eyes with me. So, while Tracy dry-humps me to the beats of “Heaven” by Bryan Adams, this purr-ty lady and I keep sending romantic eye-fuck signals to each other. Do I go over to this mysterious woman with the Cheshire cat-like eyes or do I continue dancing with Miss Easy-As-Pie? A quandary no man should ever encounter. As the night progresses, Tracy says that her friends “left her” and she has no ride home. I glance over to the feline. Should I risk a night of awesome dump-in, dump-out sex for a chance opportunity to follow my heart? I look back at Tracy — who’s counting the condoms in her purse — and say to her, “You know, Tracy, I drove tonight and all the seat belts are taken.” Tracy’s shocked at my rebuttal of guilt-free sex — as am I — but I follow the path that destiny has chosen for me. I kick her into a cab and made my way back in the bar to approach my mystery woman. I was a little nervous and I didn’t really know how to approach her –- a simple hello will not live up to these longing gazes that Kate and Leo would be envious of. But unfortunately, a grand approach was not necessary towards this fair lady. Why you may ask? Because she was too busy cleaning the DJ’s face with her tongue. She was sending him the optical fellatios and not yours truly. Makes sense, I was in their line of sight and his music selection is VH1-awesome! I fled outside quicker than Usain Bolt, desperately seeking Tracy. I caught up to the cab that I politely stowed her away in and told her I’m in no condition to drive. Houston, we have lift-off!! In the cab, it’s getting hotter than an episode of “True Blood” or a game of Candyland – whatever floats your boat. As we were making out, I wondered if there were any new sexual positions I needed to be aware of. Dammit, why didn’t I call Father Murphy! And dammit, why did I say that out loud! We arrive at her place in the middle of the city. Up in her bedroom, she wants it to be a magical night. So, I lit some candles, pulled out my wizard hat, and got my wand ready. As I was pulling the old “Nail In the Coffin” trick, I noticed a look of discontent on her face. Usually I get that look afterwards. I look over and see out of the corner of my eye a bright neon light underneath the sheets. I discarded my grandfather’s advice to “Back away from the light” to see what was ruining “S the Average’s” grand finale! Is it a toy? A flashlight? Is it a toy flashlight for grownups? I discover it was neither one of those things, but in fact, a cell phone. A phone? Now, I’m increasingly perplexed and even worse, I forgot my routine! Is she videotaping this I wonder? Does she like watching clips of “Rita Rocks” to get her in the mood? I turn my head to get a closer look at this minor disruption on the screen and come to find that she wasn’t doing either of those enticing activities. Instead, she was texting her ex-boyfriend, “I wish you were here.” I took a moment to analyze the situation. Should I continue on with an unreceptive audience or pack it up knowing that hey, I did bring these two lovebirds back together? I rashly decide that it’s best to leave the audience wanting more. So, I put my shirt on, revealed her card – 2 of diamonds — and told her to “Have a nice life.” And as I was walking down the steps, the full effect of the preceding events hit me like a Mike Tyson Knockout. And you want to know the thing that hurt the most? It wasn’t the blue balls, my ears bleeding from the DJ’s speakers, or that I had nowhere to sleep. No, the thing that hurt the most was that she spelled out “you” in the text instead of the phonetic and appropriate “u.” She was that uninterested in my magical foreplay that all of her focus was to ensure a perfect grammatical message. That hore!