The Half Hour Rule

Regret is a funny thing; it's practically a chemical property as it can take on so many forms. Over the weekend, I’ve had opposing feelings of regret. 

On the one hand, I regret my dalliance on the couch with Nate. I also regret that I didn’t let it go further. There I was, pinned underneath him, feeling his hardness press against me, and I go and ruin it by reminding us that we have to maintain a professional relationship. Maybe if I had met his mouth with my own or let his hands explore and discover how wet I was, I wouldn’t be regretting how I coped with my frustration.

Saturday breakfast with Kat and Ashton at Mediterraneo revealed their similar experiences when lust got in the way of logic.

“You should have applied the half hour rule,” Kat said, practically tsking at me. 

The “half hour rule” is something Kat, Ashton and I developed to avoid post-orgasmic regret. Yes, there really is such a thing, but one can stay clear of this humiliating condition simply by waiting a half hour after being turned on by one source (human or battery-operated) before jumping a surprised, but now very happy new bloke. We like to think of it like waiting a sufficient amount of time after eating before going swimming. It allows either a meal or lust to settle.

“Mia, why?” Kat asked. “You know what happened to me after my last Chinese foot massage?”

Ashton and I nodded dutifully. Kat looked at us and shook her head at the memory. “I still regret it. If only I had waited after Mr. Magic Hands hit every erogenous zone in my feet, I’m sure I would have had the sense to not ask him if I could see what was in the back room!” 

“It’s not all your fault,” Ashton consoled. “It had been a really long time since you had, you know.”

“She’s right,” I agreed. “Kat, you have jars in your cupboard with expirations that come sooner.” 

“Still, I can’t ever go back to YouRelax! again.”

Ashton patted her hand. “Thankfully, those places are cropping up in every strip mall throughout the city. You never have to see Mr. Magic Hands again, unlike me and Pool Boy.”

Ashton was at home mid-week with a cold and decided to test if it were true that an orgasm can relieve sinus congestion. Having gone to bed with her favorite toy and a paperback compilation of Letters to Penthouse, she became aware that the pool boy and his hose had arrived. 

“That was a matter of bad timing,” I said recalling the incident. 

“Yeah, but if she had waited...or just finished the job herself,” Kat chided. “Honestly Ash, that’s what you get when you walk out to the pool in a white see-through cover-up without your bikini on underneath.”

“I just asked if it was ready,” Ashton said innocently.

“I always wondered about that,” I asked. “When you said it, did you mean the pool or It.”

Ashton took a sip of her coffee. “It was a mistake that could have been avoided if I had just waited.”

The three of us clinked our cups, recalling the multitude of men that experienced our random acts of kindness simply because they were in the right place during our lustful time. Like Kat and Ashton, I had succumbed and didn’t wait for my thoughts to return to rational. I didn’t think about where my actions would lead. I didn’t realize that calling Adam may be my biggest regret.