I've fallen behind on my orgasms, there's a bottleneck occurring. I'm Lucy Ricardo comically struggling with the chocolates on the conveyor belt, except instead of chocolate candies think daubs of spurted semen. I like the little fluted paper cups you get in candy boxes, the brown ones more than the white ones. I'll be holding armloads of orgasms soon, defeated and crying. If I become impotent later in life, or paralyzed from the waist down, or become a human torso for some reason, I'll regret having been so cavalier about my orgasms. I think they're like heartbeats, a certain number are factored in before the machine of the body is scheduled to fail. I try to space out my allotment maturely, like I imagine the Buddha might. Hummingbirds must have a nonstop sex party for a few months, then zippo. No wonder they're high strung. I assume birds have orgasms. In my neighborhood they must do it in the morning. I can't afford this complacency, I've got to have as many orgasms as I can before I end up a canister of gray powder down at the discount atheist mausoleum. The problem is I often forget, it slips my mind, then just like that days have gone by. I have to redouble my efforts to catch up, it's exhausting. If I don't use them as they're made available to me I might find myself out of luck when I really need them, although when that might be or under what circumstances I have no idea. I might never again have a meaningful orgasm, there's a sobering thought. Have I ever had a meaningful one? Has an orgasm of mine ever sealed the deal, turned the tide, proven pivotal? I don't recall any of my orgasms being instrumental in getting Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat to sit down at Camp David. Just thousands and thousands of empty orgasms, frivolous orgasms, this is my orgasmic legacy. Alone or with someone, to me they've all been special despite their insignificance. All those wonderful pointless ejaculations. They've meant a little something to some people in my life, a moist little something, and by the same token many of theirs have touched a special place inside me. Gay parting gifts, souvenirs of sodomy, memento homo. Up, down, soaring, arcing, spraying, squirting. Strip the sheets, hand me a tissue will you. Better yet, make it two. Where did that first one go, did you see it? Turn the light on. There it is, on your shoulder. Other shoulder. Remember in Manhattan, when the ditzy woman at the cocktail party goes "I finally had an orgasm and my doctor told me it was the wrong kind" and Woody Allen says "Really? The wrong kind? I've never had the wrong kind, ever. My worst one was right on the money."