There was a time in my life where my friends would introduce me to new people and then say, "Tell the olive oil story!"

Now that I'm a married mother of three living a thousand miles away from those friends, I don't get the chance to tell the story anymore. I'm not sure this is the most appropriate place for the story, but I've been dying to write it for a while and I'd rather not post it on my blog.

You'll see why. 

In my late twenties, freshly freed from a disastrous first marriage, I discovered sex. I mean I discovered good sex. Fun sex. Empowering sex. Somewhat casual sex. It was lovely. 

But then I had a dry spell. One of my friends with benefits got a girlfriend, the other started wanting me to be his girlfriend. The cute guy who took me on a few dates turned out to be too hung up on his ex-wife to be fun at anything, let alone sex. 

One night, after a few beers and too many nights with my vibrator, I started flirting outrageously with Ben. Ben was an acquaintance, a nice teddy bear sort of guy who hung out at my favorite bar. Over a couple of hours and a few more beers, I decided that Ben should be my new friend with benefits.

He was quite enthusiastic about this idea, so I followed him to his nearby apartment.

Things got hot and heavy and he removed his underwear. He had the biggest penis I had ever seen. Like, porn star big. Actually, it was bigger than any porn star's I had seen. It was scary big. It was so big that I knew there was no way I could have sex with him comfortably, let alone happily. I let him know. 

He seemed unsurprised by this. I'm pretty sure this wasn't the first time this had happened to him. 

He suggested we do other things. I agreed, even though I was really sorry that I hadn't picked my other cute acquaintance at the bar for that night's adventure. I also thought he should have warned me, like when you tell your potential partner that you're on your period. 

While these thoughts were going through my mind, Ben turned to his night stand and picked up a bottle of olive oil. He poured some onto his penis in what he probably thought was a sensual way, but all it made me think of was watching the chefs cook at Bucca di Beppo. 

He suggested I lick the oil off. I mentally cursed all of the (seven) guys I had ever had sexual relationships with, none of whom had ever brought up olive oil as a sexual aid. I reflected that I didn't even really like plain olive oil on bread, and I LOVE bread. 

He started complimenting me, which was way more annoying than it sounds. It was so overtly sexual and so ridiculous. I finally tried the licking, just to get him to shut up. 

You know all the chefs who say olive oil makes anything better?

They have never tried it with penis.

I backed off and yelled, "I'm sorry!" and took off running. I put my pants back on while hopping out to my car. I drove home as fast as I could.

Ben followed me.

I don't know how he got his pants back on so quickly with that huge thing in the way. But however he did it, he was knocking on my door about 5 minutes after I got home.

I told him he was out of luck.

"But I brought the olive oil!" he said plaintively through the door. 

That's when I realized that not only was he over-sized and obsessed with olive oil, he wasn't too bright. 

"I hate olive oil!" I exclaimed through the door. 

"I'm gonna go then," he said dejectedly. 

I never hooked up with a guy again without checking out his package in advance and finding out his feelings about olive oil.