YO VINNIE,
I used to fuck this woman and I'd have to fuck her for 60 minutes before she could come. Sixty fucking minutes every time without fail. A minute less and NOTHING. Fifty-nine minutes of wasted sweating to the oldies. But one day just for kicks I told her I thought it'd be really hot to see her masturbate. I think I secretly hoped I'd learn a secret. But I was so generally shocked that it took her only SIX FUCKING MINUTES that I forget everything I could have learned. What's the deal? -- F.F.F. (by email)

"IS SHE COMING YET? NO? AM I EVEN FUCKING CLOSE? NO? JEESUS FUCKING CHRIST. OK. PLAN B."

Dear Mr. 60 MinuteMan: You see this is the way it works, now pay close attention. Say, for example, that you lend me your car. For an hour. Now say that I come back four days later after having driven said vehicle to Mexico and gotten it impounded for trying to smuggle 'roids in the wheel wells. You would

A) punch me in the fucking mouth
B) get punched by me in the fucking mouth after lobbing that totally fucking girlified looping overhand right
or
C) call the insurance company and then confess to me in a tearful moment that you fucked my old lady when I was in Mexico.

You see what I'm getting at? What I'm getting at is the fact that WHATEVER you choose has you choosing a choice that resolves itself in under five minutes. Women, as you're finding out, ain't like that because they don't frequently avail themselves of the nuclear blast option of conflict resolution: physical violence. But EVERYBODY gets hostile and this is the way all of that sugar and spice and everything nice shit resolves itself: in orgasm withholding horror.

Sugar and spite and back-breaking 60 minute pokefests.

Feh.

Dump her. Better yet send us her phone number and we'll handle it. 60 fucking minutes at a time.