Sex & the miracle of the two-minute man
It's amazing that heterosexual females are still willing to subject themselves to the perpetual disappointment that comes with sharing a bed with a man
In 1969 there were only 3.5 billion human beings on the planet. In 1900, it was just over a billion. And, a hundred years before, in 1800, we're talking just under a billion. Many factors have caused the recent exponential growth in members of our species. The No 1 factor is that we're not dying as quickly as we used to.
The discovery of mould's bactericidal properties (yes, penicillin) in the 1950s, and the subsequent development of other antibiotics has also helped keep us alive longer than before.
But also, like the rest of the animal kingdom, we suffer from the uncontrollable urge to procreate. Let me correct that last bit. Evolution has implanted in us the irrepressible appetite for the pleasurable sensation of the sexual act. Many regret the act milliseconds after reaching the volcanic apex. It is usually only at this point that the full implications of the consequences of the act dawn upon the participants.
This explains the high number of folks walking into any given Dischem on a Sunday morning, hats pulled over their faces, dark sunglasses and ponchos pulled over their chins. And when they get to the dispensary: "I'll have a Corenza C, some Allergex and [inaudible mumble]." Experienced pharmacists don't even blink. They simply reach for the Plan B One-Step morning-after.
But this is not the emergency contraceptive column. This is the "It's amazing how the human population has reached almost eight billion given the general ineptitude of the male species in the coitus game". Sometimes I'm amazed that heterosexual females are still willing to subject themselves to the perpetual disappointment that comes with sharing a bed with us.
But then again, I remind myself that they are humans who buy Powerball tickets, play the slots at Montecasino and who vote for fat, sweaty men in ill-fitting T-shirts, with nothing but stupid slogans and other futile exercises in the infinitesimal, statistically improbable hope of winning something.
There is this popular euphemism in society; the two-minute noodle man. In case you've been hiding inside the Sterkfontein Caves since 1994, the two-minute noodle man is the kind of man who lasts as long as it takes to prepare Maggi two-minute noodles. I think that this is a misnomer. I think that two minutes is actually very kind to many men out there.
Because I'm such a scientific columnist, I decided to put my hypothesis to the test and went to Facebook. All I did was ask men what their respective PBs were (personal best) from start to finish. I also asked my female Facebook friends what horrors have been visited upon them in the longevity stakes. The comments were as candid as they were similar.
One fellow confessed that he did not have a timer but that all he knows is that he did not get to the third thrust. Another said his PB was the one time he went in and immediately felt like he was suffering from a hectic electric shock before going into a deep slumber. One of my female friends went straight to the point: "Twenty-six seconds flat. I was like, 'That's it?'"
These stories reminded me of stories that close friends have shared with me. One friend used to be a student at the then University of Durban-Westville in the late '90s. He was extremely partial to this particular lass who resided in O-Block. One day they sat in her room, chatting, mostly about how much in love he was with her and how he wanted to buy her the moon and Gucci bags.
Around 2am, drunk with his words, she proceeded to disrobe. He quickly followed suit, but the sight of her female form in all its glory overwhelmed him. Before any physical contact had been made, he knew his weak masculinity was seconds away from betraying him. He says his last words before dying a proverbial sexual death were: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry - Lord, I'm so sorry" before collapsing in a heap of premature shame on her duvet.
Many women across the land are probably nodding their heads in recognition. Some of my female Facebook friends admitted as much. One has a philosophical approach. She says she actually finds it flattering. She says it probably means she's hotter than the Tzaneen sun in January. Another said there is a problem on the other end of the scale; when men go on for the entire duration of the second half of the Champions League final. In her words, "the smug champion thrusters must also be stopped".
Given male ineptitude in the procreation game, it seems a miracle that we've managed to overpopulate this planet. Some of my best friends are hectic, radical feminists. They often get a faraway look in their eye when they fantasise about a time when they will rid the planet of all males, save for maybe a million who will be kept in camps for harvesting spermatozoids. It is my hope that when that day comes this column will serve as evidence that I belong in that short list.