I had a breakfast with the lovely Miria Benitez, an educator with a PhD, a really smart bitch. I made a dinner date with her for 4pm. Just as she dropped me off at the front door of the gladiator barracks, knowing that I was working on my writing, she offered to stay and help, but I declined, chivalrously resisting that I soujourn alone on my literary problems, not wishing to impose upon her large brain, failing to consider that this negligent act on my part left all that considerable cerebral wattage free to dwell on an unlikely conspiracy theory that I may have in fact declined her offer of aid in order to entertain a lady friend. I had not calculated that the large brained female has a peculiar ego of its own. Although Miria Benitez knew that I entertained Mrs. Bedwrecker once a week, it irritated her to no end, that I would not let her know when. I saw this as simple prudence, not wanting a cat fight on the front lawn, which could result in both of the lovelies being marked up, kind of like sideswiping your Camaro with a Trans Am that you only drive on Sundays. Señorita Benitez, on the other hand, saw this as an insult to her intelligence, that I would be so audacious as to insinuate that she would not be able to figure out the day and the hour on her own.

I, on the other hand, was fully confident that I would have plenty of time to get my work done and have time between dates to freshen up. After all, what could go wrong?

At 4:55, I woke up to the sound of my bedroom door opening and of my head pounding, from the bottle of bedwrecking wine that I had not planned on arriving at my door in a leather purse. Immediately cognizant of my compromised situation, I glanced around and noticed that there were no condoms stuck to the end table or on the floor, and surmised that I had properly disposed of them in the waste basket and patted myself on the back mentally—free and clear.

As the lovely Latina crawled into bed with me, I heard her sniffing, and the doors of hell opened wide. As she said, “You’ve been drinking—in the middle of a writing day?!”

I rolled over and moaned, not knowing what line of bullshit I could pull out of the back of my head while it was pounding, to explain my obvious and uncustomary lack of writing discipline, nevertheless, still able to silently breath an almost-got-busted whew of relief that she had smelled wine and nothing more incriminating.

Then, the lovely nose sniffed again—off of one hook and onto another, and she said, “I smell latex.” I rolled over and groaned, as she crawled down lower in the bed. As I covered my eyes with my hairy forearm, I heard furious sniffing coming from the nether regions of the bed, as if I were a chain gang runaway listening to the slave master’s hound dogs sniff out my trail without a handful of pepper in sight…

There was a deep breath followed by a deep knowing sigh of affirmation. Then, like an archeologist confirming his suspicions on a Neolithic dig, the lovely Latina declared, “I smell pussy.”

She then crawled back up and under the guise of coming in for a kiss, she sniffed my beard and said, “And, you’ve been eating it.”

At this point, feeling like Goldilocks with her face in the porridge, I used the hand of the arm that she was laying upon to arrange the pillows in the upper corner of the bed so as to offer maximum concealment for the bowie knife I keep under there for that day when my many enemies come bursting through the door, not wanting to go out like Agamemnon. She was a Latina, after all.

To my surprise, she seemed giddy with victory, happy to be with me, cuddly, but not in a bunny rabbitish sort of way, more in the manner of a great fuzzy snake that loves you for now. She just needed to know, smug in her confidence—to an extent that I felt like a mouse that the cat had so enjoyed catching, he was being released for another go without even getting raked by her claws.

I write this as a lesson to you married men who may have made the mistake of trying to up the IQ of your offspring by marrying a brilliant bitch. Make sure that you have sown your wild oats, because we wouldn’t want anything to happen to the sowing device.