The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!) by Steven Scaffardi

baseball bat, been
threatened with the sack, accepted Don as my new name, and ran away
from a girl. Twice.
    Not exactly the perfect start
to the new year. At least I was safe in the knowledge that things
couldn’t get any worse. Right?
     
     
     
     

Chapter 5:
Black Sabbath
     
    Sunday, January 25, 2009 -
9.02am
    Drought Clock: 23 days, 21
hours, 40 minutes
     
    The break-up of a long-term
relationship is never easy. It was certainly one of the hardest
things I’d ever done. You miss so many things. Intimacy,
companionship, friendship. You miss having someone to share your
day with; your dreams and hopes.
    Me? I missed the bloody sex. No
one warns you before a break-up how much you take for granted
having regular sex on tap when you have a girlfriend. You start
looking back and cursing yourself for how blasé you were when you
had the opportunity to pretty much shag whenever you wanted.
    All those missed opportunities.
With Stacey I had once gone a whole month without having sex with
her and thought nothing of it. A whole fucking month! What was I
thinking? Three years equated to 1,095 days. I calculated that if
during that period we had had sex an average of twice a week, we
would have only had sex 312 times. That means I missed out on 783
day’s worth of shagging!
    Now, three weeks into being all
on my lonesome I was already having withdrawals, and that had only
been 23 days. How the hell had I managed to dismiss 783 days so
easily?
    The mornings
were the toughest. Every day I would wake up and there he was, tall
and proud. I felt guilty for not giving him any attention. After
all, it wasn’t all his fault. We had been
in this together. But for the past three weeks I had resisted any
contact with the one-eyed snake; almost as if I was punishing
myself for all those wasted opportunities when I was with
Stacey.
    But this Sunday morning was
different. I’d woken up with a boner so hard it was verging on
being painful. I’d decided that little Dan had been punished
enough, and he had a long overdue date with Palmala Handerson.
    The art of
mental masturbation is a skill that does not get the press it
deserves. With no visual or audio aid to assist, a true pro-stroker will take a
dip into the resource pool that is the wank bank; in this
particular case the hot red-head who sat opposite me on the bus on
Thursday evening.
    I got myself comfortable on the
bed, kicked off the covers, and prepared mass murder on millions of
tiny defenceless sperm. Anyone who tells you that spit-shining the
water pump is a dirty act should consider this: if Hitler had been
into masturbation instead of murder, all the millions of deaths
caused by his acts would have not upset the world.
    I started off slow, but soon
lost interest in making the act last. After all, this was not a
spectator sport. Just as I felt myself coming to a climax, an
unexpected noise put me off my rhythm. I glanced across the room
and felt the colour drain from my face just as quickly as the blood
started draining from little Dan.
    “ Rosalie!” I
was horrified to see the cleaner tip-toeing around the bedroom, a
feather duster in one hand. “I clean round you, no worry,” she said
in her thick South American accent, and continued to dust the
shelves. I desperately tried pulling for the covers but it was too
late and I ejaculated across the bed; an eruption of three weeks’
worth of frustration.
    “ Naughty boy,”
Rosalie giggled. “I clean, I clean.”
    “ No!” I
shrieked in horror. “Please leave it Rosalie. I’ll take care of
it.”
    She reached for the bed cover
and before I knew it I was involved in a tug-of-war for the
sperm-soaked sheets. “I clean, I clean,” she kept saying over and
over again in broken English, a big smile on her olive-skinned
face.
    Rosalie eventually lost her
grip, but the momentum of me yanking on the duvet sent me flying
backwards; my legs flailing skywards and the cover landing on top
of me, covering me in my very own love