The Little Voice

I haven't had a date, spoken to a potential date on the phone, or spoken to someone who is trying to set me up in over a week - and the detox is proceeding beautifully. I don't miss the awkward silences on the phone or in person, and the thought of not having to deal with the social ineptitude that pervades our society like the plague in 14th century Europe makes my nipples hard.

My only concern, however, is that this dating hiatus means there's no potential whatsoever of engaging in any form of sexual activity that doesn't involve my computer. It's not that I can't go a couple of months without it. I could do two months of no sex standing on my head. What's got me concerned is the thought that the last time I did it may indeed be the LAST time. I tell myself that I've done it enough times before, and that I can always again convince a woman to take her clothes off for me, but there's still that little voice in my head - the voice of George Costanza telling Jerry that he just doesn't see how it could ever happen again.

I think most guys hear that voice. Some overcompensate by banging anything and everything to drown out the voice. Others stay in unhappy relationships or marriages to rob the voice of its relevance. But I think, like me, most others just find little ways to lower the volume on its insidious message of doubt. All you need is a simple smile from a cute chick on the street, or a memory of having sex with a woman you never thought you could get, and you feel like you still got game.

Then the hot Puerto Rican chick at the bank is obnoxious to you just because you have the audacity to ask her not to hold a check even though every other teller does it for you, and Costanza's back in your head.