“It’s Uncle Ben’s beef flavored rice. We were out of white,” I explain. “Can we please focus here? What the f**k am I supposed to do?”
“Stop diddling your twigs and berries over a body of water,” Jim deadpans.
“I don’t diddle anything. I stroke lovingly. I like my penis. He’s a good guy. And the berries are never involved in the stroking. Wait, do you guys play with yours?” I ask.
Jim shrugs as he takes a bite out of his bologna sandwich. “Sometimes I do. It’s nice to incorporate the boys every once in a while so they don’t feel left out.”
“I agree. A little ball fondling goes a long way. It just depends where you are and if you can get the right angle to get down there and bring them up to the party. I like to give them a good cupping when I’m alone. Claire does this thing with her fingers where she pushes them up so that her mouth—”
Carter stops mid sentence when he hears me whimper.
“Sorry, man,” he tells me sheepishly.
This happens a lot lately. Carter and Jim will start to tell some awesome story about the sex they have with their wives and then they stop when they realize I am sitting there staring at them, hanging on every word and dry humping the table leg.
“I don’t f**king get it. You and Claire have two kids, you’ve been married for almost seven years, and you still have amazing sex. What the hell am I doing wrong?” I ask, pushing my lunch aside.
“I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. I just think you guys are going through a dry spell. Everyone goes through it at some point,” Jim reassures me.
“So you and Liz went through this?” I ask, feeling a little better about my situation.
“Oh, f**k no. We still bang like rabbits. By ‘everyone’ I meant other people,” Jim states around a mouthful of chips. “But seriously, when was the last time you had sex?”
I sit there for a minute pretending like I am doing calculations in my head. There is no need for that shit. I know exactly how long it’s been.
“Good sex, or sex-sex?” I ask.
“That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. We’re men. All sex is good,” Jim states.
“Negative, ghost rider. The pattern is full. If Claire doesn’t get off, it’s not good for me,” Carter says.
“Did you just quote Top Gun?” Jim asks him.
“Um, yes. Best mother f**king movie ever. I feel the need, the need, for speed!” Carter shouts with a fist pump.
“Okay, Homo McFaggy. If you think a bunch of shirtless, sweaty men playing beach volleyball is awesome, I’m going to need you to turn in your wings, Cougar. Your straight-man wings,” Jim states.
“Obviously. I thought I caught you sneaking a peak at my F-14 the other night when we were pissing. Do you and Claire role play in the bedroom? Does she call you Iceman and you call her Maverick?” Jim asks with a laugh.
“HELLO!” I shout. “Man with a problem here. Can we get back to something important please?”
“Sorry, but I do believe discussing Carter’s sexual orientation is important,” Jim says as Carter reaches over and punches him in the arm.
“Okay, back to the original question. How long has it been?” Carter asks. “And I’m not talking about the ‘just the tip’ night after Billy was born. I’m talking full contact, all the way home, screaming for your mommy sex.”
“If I recall correctly, the screaming for your mommy sex is only had by you, Carter,” Jim says with a laugh.
“Fuck off! I did NOT scream for my mommy. I was trying to propose to Claire,” he argues.
“Twelve months, thirteen days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” I tell them, glancing across the room at the clock hanging on the wall. “Sorry, thirty-five minutes.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jim mutters with a look of horror on his face.
“You know that off the top of your head?” Carter asks.
“You two ass**les try NOT having sex with your wives and get back to me on whether or not you keep track,” I complain.
“Have you tried talking to her about it, like I suggested?” Carter questions with a smug look on his face.
“Yes, I have, so shut the f**k up.”
The loud speaker breaks into our conversation and informs us we have five minutes left before the production line will start back up. We all stand and gather up the remnants of our lunches from the table and head across the cafeteria to the doors that lead out to the plant.
“Did you talk to her like you normally talk to her or did you try doing it without being a douche?” Jim asks as he tosses his garbage into the can.
“Shut up. I’m not a douche when it comes to my wife,” I argue.
“Really? Because I recall you asking the Elvis impersonator at your Vegas wedding if he could add a line to Jenny’s vows that said, ‘I promise to always give blow jobs with a smile on my face and love in my heart,’” Jim reminds me.
“What? That’s a legitimate wedding vow that should be a part of everyone’s wedding ceremony,” I argue. “Do you want a wife who gives blow jobs with a frowny face?”
We make our way across the plant to our spot on the production line, and Jim follows us even though he is supposed to be on the other side of the plant at a foreman meeting.
“Okay, you have a few options. One, you can actually sit down with Jenny and straight up ask her why she never wants to have sex with you anymore. And by talk, I mean ask her in a loving, nice way if something is bothering her. Always ask about her well-being first. If you make this all about you and your neglected Johnson, you’ll get nowhere. You have to make her feel like you care,” Jim explains.