Star Wars, Episode II: Attack of the Clones

Over my years as a swingin’ film-critic, I’ve come to realize something extremely signigicant. Women are a lot like movies. I’ve banged a shitload of broads in my time, and I can’t escape the comparison. Not that I’ve ever banged a movie. Although I did have an accidental protein emission on one of my father’s stag film reels when I was eleven. But that’s another story completely.

Anyway, I’ve hit the skins with the vaginal gamut: tall, short, black, pink, oozing, fur-laden, sentient, inverted… you name it, I’ve dropped the stinkhammer in it. I’ve had lengthy relationships with some of the most beautiful women out there, and I’ve plowed the furrow behind some real donkies. It’s always the Star Wars chick that grabs your attention first. You know the one. Great big buoyant saline-enhanced cans, a dynamite ass with a short fuse, impossibly blond hair, and legs so long God had to create a whole tribe of midgets somewhere in Africa to compensate. Man, if I wasn’t almost 80, I’d be harder than a three day old biscuit just thinking about her.

So you get together with this girl and tap that ass for about three months and you think to yourself, “Who did a portly bitch like me have to blow in my former life to deserve this young supple goddess?” And so you sexually bend this girl to your will, having sex every hour until Mr. Johnson looks like he ran a marathon with no sneakers on his nuts.

Except for the chafed shaft, life is good.

But then one day, after an infinite amount of missionary position sex (which is the only way she likes to do it–something about you finishing up quicker that way), you start thinking, “This gal has gobbled my duckbutter three ways to Sunday and I really don’t know that much about her.” So you lay off the intercourse for awhile and you attempt to get to know the person behind the humongous rack. Slowly it dawns on you: there is nothing to learn. She works out five days a week drinks skim milk, and dreams of a life in sales. And that’s the interesting shit. She’s possibly the most vacuous human being this side of your lobotomized great aunt. The only hobbies she has, she glommed off of you, just like she’ll do with her next boyfriend. You begin to realize that every response to any situation she encounters could be pulled right from a Guiding Light script:

“I need to be protected and nurtured, Abe.”

“I-I-I…I love you Abraham. Make tender love to me under the autumn moon.”

“How could you sleep with my sister you bastard? I feel utterly betrayed!”

Nurtured? Betrayed? Make love? Is this the same gal that was stimulating my prostate with her middle toe the night before? Fuck me in the goat ass.

Then you lay in bed next to your goddess at night and you start reminiscing about all the ugly, interesting women you’ve slept with, and you wish you were back with any one of them.

There’s the girl that liked to smoke the post-coitus cigarette with her ass (Trainspotting), the schizophrenic homeless woman who thought that, when her pants were off, she was Rapunzel (the Fisher King), the mousy librarian who was covered from the neck down in tattoos (Memento), the sardonic teenager who hated everyone and everything (Ghost World), the crazy felon you met at the AA meetings who liked to rob liquor stores (Pulp Fiction), and the ex who wanted to cover you in bacon fat and unleash her shaved, horny poodles (Best in Show). Those are the women you remember. Those are the women you fall in love with.

Just remember this: for every two-minute Yoda light saber duel, there’s a lifetime of straight-up missionary cracking.

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