 What’s it like being a married sex machine, you ask. Well, it’s very interesting. Now that women know I’m married, the old idea of forbidden fruit comes into play. They see the simple band of gold on my finger and think, “That sex machine is all married up, and now I want him even more...This desire could send me to women’s prison, but I can’t fight the feeling. It’s like seeing a luscious bon-bon or a jar of the finest caviar up on the shelf just out of reach.”
My wedding ring has a message for these women. The message is, “Too bad for you. You didn’t win the sweepstakes, this one here (my wife) did, and now you have to suffer.” It says, “You can look but don’t touch” and “Private property – no trespassing.” It’s like I’ve put up an electrified fence around myself. Though these women can no longer sidle up to me and knock me down, I still feel their vibes. So I have to put out my own vibes: Don’t get too close to the flame. You’ll just get burned. And for what? It’s a dream that for them can never come true. I pity them, yet I envy them their fantasy.
I see these women on the street and in the mall, but what can I do? I feel them giving me the hairy eyeball as they pass by, looking boldly at me and at the crease in my pants. I can’t stop every woman and tell her that these are wrinkle-free pants with perma-creases built in, that when I iron slacks myself the creases veer off to the right or the left, and sometimes I double-crease and then there are two lines running down the front of my pants leg so I look like I’m walking in two directions at once. How can I tell these women what they consider “fashion mastery” in reality stems from a practical decision in the marketplace? Am I to shatter their every illusion?
It’s the same with the wallet marks in my back pocket. “Look at the sex machine, he’s got a wallet. I wish I could be around when he takes it out of his pocket. Ooh, aah.” Do you think I enjoy this? I can’t even buy a pack of sheet protectors or double-A batteries at Rite-Aid without feeling women’s eyes on my wallet marks. They’re thinking, “He’s buying sheet protectors and batteries now – tomorrow it may be shampoo or floss or other personal items. Ooh.” Why can’t they leave me alone? Am I just a piece of fine-aged Angus beef? I might as well walk around with “Certified Grade A” stamped on my forehead. Would that make everyone happy?
It’s oppressive to be a sex machine. To have your hair stared at, and your fingers. Your feet. When I’m with my wife in the mall, all may appear normal to the casual observer, but the sexual tension in the air is nearly overwhelming. What may seem to be to you to be an inconsequential glance from a woman speaks volumes to me, because I am a man who knows who I am. I’ve been cursed with this thing.
I constantly have to be on guard because I never know when I’m going to awaken the savage in someone. It’s constant stress. I have to stay on the balls of my feet in the mall, keeping my arms dangling loosely at my side. My wife doesn’t know that I’m ready in case women jump out at me from stores. She just continues on. But the women know, saying to themselves, “The sex machine is ready. I’d better cool my jets.”
I know this may be insensitive to the women out there, but in conclusion I would like to present a brief snapshot of my life at home, because I think it will be of interest to the general reader. The other day my wife accidentally trod on my bare little toe, and I screamed and fell over onto my bed and whimpered for several minutes. My wife thought I was a big baby, but when I later shone the flashlight on my mortified toe for her – highlighting a swollen, sharply ridged corn on the bottom of it – she then had a great deal of sympathy and understood why it was I shrieked like I did.
It was a moment of tenderness and understanding for myself and my wife, and while I do realize this is cruel to other women to flaunt our relationship in this manner I thought it might be helpful to you married fellows out there to know that you can shine a flashlight on your toes and your wife will then feel sorry for you. A hint from the sex machine.
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Quirkee Voices 
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