Orgasms are supposed to be liberating. They're supposed to be the glowing sash of release after a long marathon of sweat, cramps, guffaws and whispered threats of joy. Orgasms: the nail in the coffin, the dotted i's and crossed t's, the end credits. For some reason, my last two sex romps have left me hornier than before the orgasm knocked on the door. What's up with that? My diet hasn't changed; my wife hasn't changed; I certainly haven't changed, for fuck's sake! Usually, upon reaching climax, I can think again about normal things. Did I turn out all the lights? Is the front door locked? What is the point of shaving every fucking day? Where do I want to do laundry tomorrow? Why do conservative God-Nuts want to rob us of our free will when it was given to us by God in the first place? You know, stuff like that. Isn't this true for most males? I have no scientific evidence to even begin speculating about the female Zen following orgasm(s), so forgive my narrow minded ramblings. Anyway, when I get off it is fair to say that the perfect female could immediately pop into the room, naked and glowing, proceed to do fifty jumping jacks (this, you see, entails that the so-called 'perfect woman' has been reduced strictly to an epidermal status, devoid of any real personality, therefore valuable only where her physical traits are concerned; also, she's gotta have humongous breasts; ergo, the perfect woman where perversion is concerned, got it?) and scream out, "Let's fuck!" and I'd smile sweetly and say, "Sorry. Too late." I freely admit that. I understand that there are guys out there that are capable enough to say, "Game on!" but I'm not one of them. I'm a pretty simple orgasm guy. I orgasm, some white stuff comes out and into the air where pee normally would out (forgive my scientific lingo), and I collapse in a splay of sun kissed nerves, ready to dwell on other things like dinner or sleep or a book. Not lately, though! For the life of me, I can't figure out why. Lately, I have the desire to roll again. Maybe I'm dying? That seems logical.... Maybe somewhere in me is a preservationist gene that senses something is amiss deep inside me and if that gene wants to be represented in a continuity of life where I am the blue print, then maybe it's got my crotch all in a fury. Makes sense to me. Also, maybe I really, really dig my wife. Hmm... 