At Last: I’ve Found Someone Less Romantic Than My Husband

At Last: I’ve Found Someone Less Romantic Than My Husband

– Calico Rudasill, Sssh.com Porn Movie For Women

I’ve never been much for romance as a genre. When I was a youngster, romance novels were things read by the girls who made fun of me; sci-fi was my safe place and comfort zone.

In high school, I was made to read books like Jane Eyre, which was OK, I suppose. Personally, I preferred hearing the story from the perspective of Antoinette Cosway – the “madwoman in the attic” – in Wide Sargasso Sea. 

You Don’t Have to Write Me a Love Song, But…

I don’t know if it’s because of my lack of affection for the romance genre and its many awful cliches, or if the causality works the other way around, but having an element of romance in my life has never been a major priority for me. Having said that, I also don’t object to spontaneous displays of romanticism in/from my husband – or perhaps I should say I wouldn’t object to such, because those displays on his part have been, to this point in our relationship, largely theoretical.

The bright side of this is that he will never, ever again suggest that we try to go out for dinner on Valentine’s Day, because the one time we did that our reservations got screwed up and after waiting for an hour, we gave up, took an order to go, got cut off on the way home and would up with miso soup all over the dashboard.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind if – just once or twice in however many years we have left together – he’d come home with flowers that aren’t from Home Depot and destined for the back garden.

We Can Skip the Butt-Scooting Part… Come to Think of it, We Can Skip Every Part

On occasion, my husband will start feeling guilty over his lack of romantic impulses and ask me something like “Am I the least romantic man in existence?” I usually assure him that there must be at least a few men out there, somewhere, who are even less so. Probably. OK, maybe.

I have good news for my husband on this front today, though. I may not have found a less romantic man, but I do believe I’ve found a less romantic male. I’m speaking, of course, of the male cockroach.

“When a male cockroach wants to mate with a female cockroach very much, he will scoot his butt toward her, open his wings and offer her a homemade meal — sugars and fats squished out of his tergal gland,” reports Jason Bittel for the New York Times. “As the lovely lady nibbles, the male locks onto her with one penis while another penis delivers a sperm package.”

Wow. For just a couple sentences, there’s a lot to unpack here. 

Wait: You Mean There is Such a Thing as Cockroach Sex Gone Right?

First, the cockroach “delivers a sperm package”? Whatever else I might learn from this article, it’s clear that if things don’t work out with the Times, Jason might have a future awaiting him, writing clip descriptions for a porn site.

Second, I know what you’re thinking: If the male cockroach brings the female sugars, isn’t that analogous to bringing her a box of chocolates, thereby making the male cockroach more romantic than my husband? I can see where you’re coming from, but Bittel also specifies that this is a “homemade meal” – and if you could only sample one of my husband’s homemade meals, you’d know there’s nothing at all romantic about offering me one of those. (Kraft macaroni and cheese is sometimes appreciated as comfort food, but a box of chocolates it ain’t.)

Finally… “another penis”?

“If everything goes smoothly, a roach’s romp can last around 90 minutes,” Bittel continues, “But increasingly, cockroach coitus is going really, weirdly wrong….”

You know what? I think I’m just going to stop reading there. Sure, I’m into sci-fi and all, but when the topic turns to two-penised cockroach sex gone “really, weirdly wrong,” I’m OUT.