Inside The Horror Of Bridesmaid Dress Shopping

I had a conversation with a girl who described how she was trapped in the hell matrix of shopping for a bridesmaid dress. Here is her dispatch from the frontlines.

HER: I had to go bridesmaid dress shopping on Saturday. If you thought the baby shower was gayer than gay, you have no idea.

ME: haha. Was it you and the girls?

HER: There were overbearing eastern european megalomaniac high pressure saleswomen. The fattest brides I’ve ever seen. And one woman in a halter wedding gown (white) who was at least pushing 65.

ME: Wow. What gift do you get the blushing bride who has 65 years worth of accumulated stuff?

HER: The saleslady suggested she wear a cape for modesty’s sake. But she adamantly refused and kept parading around haughtily while her withered groomsman, 20 years her junior at least, slumped in the corner with his coffee cup. It was a depressing scene to be sure.

ME: A beaten man. Barely alive.

HER: I tried on like one dress and said “K. Good to go. Let’s just take this one.” But no, they want you to pore over every last detail, photograph them all, revisit the choices. For 3 hours.

ME: Psychotic!

HER: My mom came in to get a mother of the groom dress, and sort of sighed heavily. She’s like “What color will you wear?” “Black.” “Emily!!” “What? I can wear it again for any occasion. Bar mitzvahs… funerals…”. Megan (the bride-to-be) instead settled on a putrid shade of mocha. We’ll look like gussied up turds. Turd cakes.

ME: The minister will be Mr. Hanky. Howdy ho everybody!

HER: It’s just a sea of color swatches and taffeta and a sense of crushing defeat. Not to mention the pitying looks at the bridesmaids for not having “made it”. Always a bridesmaid. Just like the damn Swedes at the world junior hockey championships. The room was pepto-bismol pink. Like being in a turbulent stomach. And she still couldn’t find a dress! So we get to do it all over again! Wheeee!!!! SHOOT ME.

ME: It’s exactly the nightmare most men imagine it to be.

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Random Musing Of The Day

Why is it the biggest engagement rings are always found on the hands of women over 30? Who are these beta schmoes spending a fortune on rings for women with only a few years of primo fuckability left?

Discuss.

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Chronicles Of A 21st Century Bachelor

“Wait, just let me grab my phone.”

She leaned over my lap, arching her back so her round ass was sticking up in the air. Her jeans were skin tight. “That’s a funny ringtone you’ve got.”

She looked back at me coyly, holding her phone loosely in one hand. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“This.” She wiggled her rump. “You like my ass?”

“It’s juicy.” I rested my hand on one cheek, proud of myself that I didn’t have to lie about the quality of her ass.

“MMmmm. Would you like to spank me?”

I gave her a playful spank, making sure to hit both cheeks at once. spank.

“Oh, yeees.” Her eyes were closed. “Hi, Mom…. no, I’m fine… I’m at Amanda’s. Yes, Amanda’s… YES! Yeah.”

“You’re talking to your Mom?!”

“Bye!” Her ass scooted up a little more. “She’s always so worried about me. Spank me again?”

spank.

“MMmmmMMMmmm… uh huhh agaaaain…”

spank spank spank.

“Woooo. Do you like hitting my ass?”

“It’s acceptable.” SPANK. SPANK.

“Oh wow, that feels good. I like it when you hit me harder.” Her hips were grinding mechanically. “Keep going. Hit as hard as you like.”

I hauled off on her ass. SPANK… SPANK!

“MM MM MM!” Humid warmth radiated from her crotch. “Harder harder please please please.”

“Did I say you could talk?” I was throwing myself into the absurd unfolding scene. “I’ll be the judge of how hard I hit you.”

“Yes, siiiir!” she chirped. She was considerably younger than me.

Spank spank spank spank. Her phone rang again.

“Hi… yeah, I’m OK…” She spoke more words into the phone. “Okaaaay… *sigh*… I’ll call you later.”

“Your Mom?”

“No, my brother. He’s just checking up on me.” She smiled wistfully. “I love them so much.”

A stimulus package of sadistic contempt surged through my veins. I really wanted to inflict pain on this chick. “That’s… sweet.” I stretched my arm behind my head like a pitcher preparing to throw a fastball and sent it hurtling, open-palmed, as fast and as hard as I could into her fleshy bottom.

WHACK!!

“Unghnuu.. uh huhhhh…. oh god….” Did she just come? “Do you want to use something on me?”

“Stop talking.” WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK.

“Oh oh oh oh… my god… leave a mark.”

“Get off.” I pushed her off my lap and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a big metal spoon. From my bedroom her phone rang with its annoyingly quirky ringtone.

“*words words words*… yes, Mom, I promise… Ok, everything is FINE. OK! I love you too. Bye.”

I walked into my bedroom. She was naked on my bed, on all fours, her ass turned toward me. She looked over her shoulder at me. “I’m waiting.”

“Your Mom again??”

“Oh… yeah. She calls, like, 15 times a night. She doesn’t trust me.” She started drawing invisible figure eights in the air with her arched buttocks.

“15 times? Does she know you’re here?”

“HA! No way, I told her I’m at a friend’s. Come here. I want more spankings.”

I revealed the metal spoon I had been hiding behind my back.

“Oh oh that’s really going to hurt isn’t it?” She didn’t sound afraid.

THWWWWAAACK!

“OWW, fuck.”

THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK. I tossed the spoon and resumed hitting her with my hand. SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK…………….. WHACK! Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I was giving it everything I had. The sadism was strong in me.

“Oooh shiiiit… gguuuuhhhhh….” Her legs quivered. I could see red marks on both cheeks, even through the dark of the room and the light brown color of her skin. Her labia glistened with pussy juice. I looked at my palm and saw it was moist.

*ring ring ring*

“Wow, your phone… again.” It was her Mom. I spanked her while she reassured her Mom once more that she was at Amanda’s. There was no doubt in my mind her Mom heard the crack of my palm against her daughter’s exposed butt cheeks. She did nothing to stop me.

“Yes, Mom.”

WHACK!

“Ok, Mom, I know.”

SPANK!

“I love you too.”

CRACK!

“Bye!”

THAAAAWACK!

“Give it to me!” I positioned my cock (I had slipped a rubber on while spanking her) at the entrance of her hole and teased the lips apart with the tip. “I’m scared. Go easy, please. Please.” Scared? I wondered to myself if she was a virgin. No way. Way?

I pounded her from behind so hard, so violently, that I knocked her halfway off the bed. Her head and shoulders were dangling over the side. With each mighty reverberating thrust her head banged against the floor. Cataclysmic release.

…

*ring ring ring*

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” It had been ten minutes since the last call.

“Hiii. No I’m fiiiine. Seriously. Everything’s OK. OK ok ok. YES, I will let you know. Alright! Don’t upset Mom. Thanks. Ok Bye.”

“Lemme guess. Brother again?”

“I have to go.”

“Problem?”

“My brother has, like, this special GPS thing on his phone. He can track where I am by my phone.”

“I see.”

“He probably already knows where I’m at right now.”

“Um. Yeah. Interesting.”

“I should go. He could be on his way here.”

“Fantastic. Are you for real?”

“I don’t know for sure, but he could be coming here.”

“Well then, let’s get you out of here. Metro is straight down Calvert. Go two lights. You could try a cab, too.”

“Sooorrrry… oh god, I can’t find my shoe.”

“It’s here.” I tossed her the black stiletto. “Hey, I’ve got one question.”

“What?” She smiled earnestly at me.

“What does your Dad do for a living?”

“He’s a physician.”

“Huh, a doctor.”

“Well, a physician.”

“And your Mom?”

“She’s a physician too.”

“Nice. Do you have a pillow on your bed that says ‘The princess sleeps here’?”

“Ha ha! I should!”

As she walked out my door, her ridiculous quirky ringtone pierced the air. “Hi, Mom……..”

I deleted her number in the morning.

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Contraption

I didn’t bother unhooking her bra. I never do anymore. I pulled it off her like a t-shirt. As I’m squeezing her boobs (and taking a mental note of her remaining “years-to-sag” based on a complicated formula I devised involving underside crease length, armpit spillover when prone, and depth of press), I glance over at her bedside table and notice an unusual object illuminated by the thrift shop lamp. It was a huge, purple vibrator — the luxury model, by the looks of it — with ridges and nubs and hooks and multiple arms sticking out from it, like a saguaro cactus.

I’m pretty sure there was even a scrolling LED screen. It sat there nonchalantly like a potted plant, or a paperweight. Wow, this is embarrassing, I thought. She forgot to put it away. It was so large and ridiculous that I had to interrupt our foreplay to ask her about it.

“Um, that’s quite a contraption you have over there. Just… laying out.”

“Oh yeah, that’s my little toy.” She didn’t sound embarrassed. “I use it every Sunday to masturbate. I can cum ten times with that baby.”

“Ten times? Straight through, or spread out over the day?”

“Like, within an hour or so.”

“Yeah. Impressive.” I tried to figure why her naughty “secret” wasn’t more titillating to me. Back when I was 18 this sort of discovery would have been exciting. Oh, yeah, I would have thought, This chick is kinky! She’s gonna do all sorts of crazy shit in bed! Now that I’m older and more discerning of women I sleep with, a giant purple saguaro vibrator staring at me from across the room doesn’t make me more turned-on by the woman who uses it. In fact, just the opposite. I lower my estimation of her as a worthy girl in whom I would be happy to take out on creative, exciting dates. Ladies, this is what a man thinks of you when he notices your purple saguaro and you don’t seem fazed by him discovering it:

1. novelty seeking (slut)
2. sexually adventurous (slut)
3. horny all the time (slut)
4. unconcerned about men’s opinions of her (good god, what a slut)

Now 1 – 3 aren’t problems if the girl possesses reasonable degrees of those urges, or if you’re just looking for an uncomplicated fling. You don’t want to hitch your weenie wagon to a frigid ice queen. Number 4 is a flashing red light that she is a cheating whore at heart. Any girl who can’t be bothered to take the two seconds worth of effort to hide her absurd sex toys when a man comes over is a girl who won’t think twice about cheating on you. Even if most girls aren’t delicate, precious chaste creatures, you at least want the girl you are dating to pretend like she is and acknowledge your opinion of her matters — and one thing that matters very much to guys, even if they won’t admit it to the girl’s face, is that the girl he is with isn’t the town orifice. Men want their women, at a bare minimum, to take token stabs at modesty. It’s endearing to us and suggests you will be worth keeping around. We don’t want women to embrace their sluttiness as if it were a postmodern badge of honor. A good woman understands this and heeds a man’s romantic sensibilities.

The trick for men is finding a balance in women between unrepressed sexuality and faithful frigidity. Too much of the former = cumguzzling slut. Too much of the latter = blue balls. A proudly displayed purple saguaro says “I’m a slut, and you’ll like it.”

I’ve found that the more power I acquire over women, the pickier I’m becoming. I won’t call back a girl who has a purple saguaro on her nightstand. This choosiness has strengthened my character. I’m a better man for it.

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Sex And Socks

Why are women offended by the wearing of socks during sex?

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The Industrial Park Nightclub Is Dead

Who goes to these venues anymore? I’m talking about clubs like Fur and Platinum in DC. The era of the multi-floor, $12 bottom shelf drink, $20 cover, $20 valet parking, bottle service douchery, strobe and laser light show, Axe fumigated, plastic wristband tagged, earsplitting, bump and grind dance club playing cheesy house and electro music is over. Any man who’s lived a day knows these places are the worst for scoring quality chicks low on STD count, and not much better for hooking same night lays.

The trend is away from these soulless behemoths to smaller, more intimate dance clubs and lounges. Maybe it’s a sign of the coming economic collapse that people are turning to low key places, or maybe guys are wising up to the fact that it’s easier, cheaper and more effective to game girls in the daytime or in less artificial environments. I predict that soon we will see a major contraction in the number of megaclubs littering major cities like DC and New York.

Any place that features a huge dancefloor with girls dancing in lockout circles creating a perimeter defense, screeching when their favorite song comes on, and little space left over for couches and quiet areas where you can sit with a girl and talk her into sex is a bad bet. Personally, I get bored with dancing after five minutes, so I usually lose interest in gaming a girl who wants to dance all night. It’s pointless when there are better things she could be doing with her body, like greasing up her ass crack so I can play log flume.

The wave of the future is Unanticipated Pickup. You read it here first. Men will learn the value of approaching girls when and where they least expect it, catching pleasantly surprised girls off guard with bitch shields lowered, and from that solid foundation better dating experiences will follow, and the yin-yang polarity will be strong. Now no place will be safe haven for women from the predations of guys like me.

Next stop: Church, back of the pews. Giggity!

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Don’t Be This

herbie the love beta

When you visualize beta, he’s not always a loveless nerdo who repels girls. Sometimes, he’s the guy in the photo above nestled snugly in his girlfriend’s bosom… in public.

Here we have a prime specimen.

• Fat chipmunk cheeks betraying aversion to physical exertion
• Asian girlfriend hotter, and thinner, than what he could pull in a white girlfriend
• Rumpled, oversized khaki pants with room for three accidental shits
• Fingers intertwined like spaghetti — herb spaghetti
• Soft Palmolive hands from years of tapping keyboards and studiously avoiding manual labor
• Leaning into his girlfriend, displaying a complete gender role reversal
• Blissfully unaware of his horrid betaness and everyone secretly laughing at him

Some may wonder, how does this beta manage to score a decent looking girlfriend who apparently loves him? We can only surmise. Nine inch cock? A reasonable assumption, but he couldn’t play that card until after she’s agreed to sleep with him. Bank? A more likely scenario, but provider beta status doesn’t work on cute chicks like it used to. This is yupville, after all. Soft polygamy is the rule in the big coastal cities. Closet alpha with tight game? A lot of guys you wouldn’t suspect by their normal daytime behavior handle their girls with a firm pimp hand behind closed doors. But if this guy has girlfriend management game, he’s not showing it at all. Guys with even a bare minimum understanding of women and basic game skills know better than to curl up into their girlfriend’s bosom IN PUBLIC like a cat wanting to be petted. Odds are good that this herbus maximus has no game.

Best answer: She’s Asian.

No non-fatty white girlfriend would tolerate such nauseating beta shit for long. His ass would be dumped as soon as the bartender winked at her. Is it any wonder guys like this hone in on Asian girls? I don’t blame them. With the Asian girlfriend, they get to be all the beta they can be, without fear of reprisal. And they don’t have to settle for a fat chick.

To my beta readers: If you do manage to land a cute girlfriend, for the love of all that is manly, don’t ever do what this guy is doing. Think of this blog post, imprint that photo to memory, and you’ll thank me later for saving your relationship.

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