The 8 Hour Sex Emergency
One man. Eight hours. Zero plans. Infinite stupidity.
"What's so funny?" I asked the barista, looking up from the menu. I’d been standing there fifteen minutes, trying to decide which coffee to get.
He chuckled, then burst into laughter.
Man, that's rude. Laugh at my stinking t-shirt or my hair parted like a traffic signal if you want — but not sharing something funny is just disrespectful.
"There’s this story on Medium — says men should have as much sex as possible before they hit forty. After that, energy’s gone."
He chuckled again.
"Would you like to order something, sir?" he looked up from his mobile.
A machine that clears my choking and helps me breathe would do. Or maybe ask the waitress to pump air into my body with her mouth.
"Are you okay?" The barista offered me water. "Do you have asthma?"
Yeah — you just gave me one.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and glanced at the clock behind him.
If that story was true, I had eight hours left to become a legend. Given my current sex stats, this was an emergency.
Two major problems:
First, my wife wasn't really interested in things that made me happy… like sex.
Second, whenever she got interested, I somehow lost all energy. But with the ticking time bomb, I figured I could hold my interest today.
7 hours to go —
"Would you like to have sex today before midnight? I mean plural sex — like multiple times?" I messaged my wife.
"I prefer jumping into the sea and killing myself," she replied.
I appreciated her flexibility. She was open to scheduling the other important thing that could make me happy: her death.
But seriously — why jump into the sea when there are easier ways?
"Why don't you schedule the 'suicide by the sea' for tomorrow? I'll give you a ride to the beach after my birthday party," I messaged.
She didn’t answer. Encouraging. That meant she was considering it.
After badgering her with more messages, she finally sent me a middle finger emoji — forty-three minutes later.
6 hours to go —
Since my wife had turned me down, I had to consider Plan B: my secretary.
The problem? I’d already rejected her. She once tried to sleep her way into a promotion. I know, I know — I should have taken the advice of old men from the gym. But back then, I was young. And stupid. And tragically in love — with myself. One woman was already too many.
I smiled at her. She raised an eyebrow. I wiggled mine, inviting her into my cabin.
She responded by flipping me off and headed straight into my boss’s office instead.
Man, these old men do follow their own advice from the gym quite often.
4 hours to go —
As I stepped out of my office, scanning for options, my eyes landed on Nick.
"Looks like you're finally ready," Nick said, winking and leaning against the coffee machine like he owned the damn thing.
I’d be lying if the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. The problem? I was straight. Tragically straight.
"No, thank you."
"You’ll be forty tomorrow. After that, it’s all downhill. Think again," Nick urged.
I stared. "How do you know that?"
He shrugged. "Everybody knows."
I had never wished to be gay before. Until that moment. Life would’ve been so much simpler.
2.5 hours to go —
I called Vipin, my best friend. My last hope. In six months, he’d face the same crisis.
The problem? He was a historian. Everything had a historic angle.
"You know why you’re not getting any sex?" he asked.
I shook my head, praying he wouldn’t answer.
"Because of Stone Age men and their libido."
"Stone Age men?"
"Yeah. They had too much sex, population exploded. So the elders invented a device to control it."
"What device?"
"Marriage," Vipin said, tapping my shoulder like he’d discovered fire. "That’s when men stopped having sex entirely."
I scratched my head. "Do you have an actual solution?"
"Divorce her. Remarry. You’ll get three solid months of sex again before interest drops."
I paused. He had a point. My first three months were glorious.
But unless I could pull off a full divorce and remarriage in under three hours, I had to skip his plan.
1 hour to go —
I glanced at the clock. As its hands moved, my heart pounded like it was personally invested in ruining my last shot at sex.
When I turned, my wife stood in front of me. She was wearing a gorgeous red dress — and smiling.
Whoa. She never smiled when she looked gorgeous. That meant only one thing: she wanted something.
I watched her weird sway — what she called her "sexy walk" — as she approached.
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
It took me back to my Stone Age — when I threw stones at lucky men simply for having women wrap their arms around them. That felt like several evolutionary cycles ago.
"I want to give you something before it's too late," she whispered, gently kissing my ear.
"What?" I chuckled as it tickled.
"A chance to have your best sex," she said, pushing me onto the bed.
8 hours after I turned forty —
I slept like a dog.
I’d done it. Sure, I only managed once before midnight, but it counted.
Strangely, when I woke up, my wife wanted more. That was new.
Even stranger — I had more energy and interest than I ever did in my twenties.
Maybe those Medium writers were full of crap after all.
Later that morning, I stood in front of the barista again, trying to decide which coffee to order.
He chuckled.
That’s frustrating. How the hell did he know I had sex only once yesterday?
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"There's this story on Medium," he said. "Says women often have a lot of sex with their husbands — right before they cheat or kill them."
Suddenly, all the energy drained from my body — like those poor Stone Age men who never had sex again.
Don’t be the only human who missed it.
Everyone’s grabbing Silly Humans while it’s still FREE.
You laugh. You question life. You feel slightly smarter than the people in the book.
But only if you grab it before it’s gone.
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