I made three mistakes last night. First, when I went over to Bertha’s house, I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just grabbed her, made love to her, and left.

Instead, I had to ask her where she had been all weekend. I was prepared to tell her that I sat in my car outside her apartment all night last weekend, and she never came home. No need. Here’s what she said:

“I was with Thurston.”

(His real name isn’t Thurston, but it’s equally snooty.)

“Who the hell is Thurston?”

“He’s one of my lovers.”

My second mistake is that I didn’t walk out the door right then. No, I had to act like I was cool with the whole thing. After all, only losers get caught up in petty jealousies. The desire to possess closes the heart, right? So I went with it.

The truth is that I was lonely and really, really horny. As in steam blowing out the ears.

We went into her bedroom and had sex. Only this time it was much different. I didn’t have the warm rapture which overwhelmed me the last few times. In fact, it was quite the opposite. If it’s fair to compare our first encounter to two wolverines caught in a dryer, this would be like a grizzly bear taking on a salmon (only the salmon was on top).

In my anger, I finished early and let out a primordial yell. Bertha calmly pulled out something from a box under her bed. She called the thing ”the fireman,” even though it was just a smooth blue cylinder. I was too confused to ask. After instructing me to rub her in certain areas, she then went about pleasuring herself with her little blue fireman.

Here’s the third mistake. When she was finished, I asked her to marry me. The timing just wasn’t right.

She said she’d have her answer shortly.