What’s Annoying In This Picture?

Take a look at this “man” (and I use the term loosely):

This twee little turd was photographed at the opening of the new Brooklyn Flea market, written about in this New York Times article. The annoyance level of this picture is a 9 on the Prickter scale. There’s so much hideousness to choose from that you’ll have to decide what’s most annoying. Personally, it’s a toss-up between the billowing flowered scarf and the gloves in April.

If you needed one picture to sum up everything that’s wrong with a once great nation, this will do. From the doughy flaccid face begging for a punch to the exquisitely scuffed boots, he’s a pure distillation of decadent pointlessness. An asexual globule of fey excess. A consumerist wastrel. He’s like the anti-Christ of virile manhood: the anti-man. The nearer you get to him, the more testosterone he sucks out of your soul. Ironically, the closer women get to him the more manly they become, probably out of spite. Women tend to take on the characteristics of men when the men in their lives forfeit the job.

Here’s the catch: If he’s straight, I bet he gets laid more than the average straight American man. Why? Because he’s not average. Stepping out of the mainstream, no matter how preposterous, gets a man noticed by women. Most will hate him, some will be indifferent, and a few will love him like a rock star. This equation adds up to more pussy than the average guy can get, since average men are hated by some women and unnoticed by all the rest. A bland average man never starts off with a small but firm base of aroused women.

It’s for this reason I define alpha males as those who can secure the best pussy in the greatest quantities on the most favorable terms. Bowling 300 is an alpha trait, but skipping the bowling competition to violate a hipsterette’s mouth in the back of a coat check of a dingy club is alpha itself.

ps: men should never go to flea markets. are you a gatherer, or a hunter?

pps: whitepeople love postscripts.

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Unbridgeable Chasm and a Recap

There was a contest for the best pictures on the internet for 2007 and the winners of the ‘Favorite Photo for Male Voters’ and ‘Favorite Photo for Female Voters’ categories really says a lot about what turns us on visually.

Here is the photo judged most pleasing by male voters:

No surprise. I would’ve liked to have seen some green nipples for realism.

Here is the photo judged most pleasing by female voters:

The lesson is clear. Men have women’s bodies on the brain, and when they can’t ogle a real woman’s body they’ll settle for a mossy likeness. Women have cute animals, babies, and maternal love on the brain. And when they can’t enjoy these things they become lawyers. In previous generations, the husband spent a few nights a week out of the house playing poker with his buddies. There was no concept of married couples sharing all aspects of their lives together. I think they had it right.

In other news, the hipster happy hour last Friday brought a lot of love, although there weren’t many authentic hipsters at Marvin, just a lot of yuppies dancing ineffectually. There was rampant binge alcoholism and some were found passed out on their couches afterwards.

This looks like it was a very sweet dream.

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When A Girl Needs An Asshole

I met a pretty blonde girl for a first date at one of my favorite lounges (that is to say, the lounge met the requirement of being conveniently located within walking distance of my place). Halfway through the marry, boff, kill game we had the following conversation.

Her: Have you seen that VH1 show The Pickup Artist?

Me: Yeah, why?

Her: The main guy from the show, Mystery, hit on me at St Louis Bar a few weeks ago.

Me: Was he wearing a fuzzy hat with aviator goggles and a Victorian jacket over a t-shirt that said “Mystery”?

Her: Yes! Just like in the show.

Me: [thinking to myself a trip to Poland sounds good right about now] How did he do?

Her: He asked me for my opinion about something, and then made fun of me. I called him an asshole and told him to fuck off.

Me: Lemme guess… you were kind of attracted to him, right?

Her: No! He’s an asshole.

Me: Wow, you’re one of those! I thought you guys were a dying breed.

Her: One of what?!

Me: You’re drawn to assholes. It’s OK, you can be honest. I won’t judge.

Her: [stares at me for a few seconds] I’ll admit that in the past I was drawn to assholes. But there was no way he was getting a chance with me. The guy is a D-list celebrity. Not even! He’s a total douche.

Me: And yet a month later you’re still thinking about that moment.

Maxim #3: Whenever an attractive girl tells you she hates assholes, or describes her experience in the past dating assholes and claims to avoid them now, or recites a laundry list of asshole-y things guys do that she disapproves of, you can bet your weight in gold bricks that she needs you to be an asshole to her.

After this illuminating conversation I knew that I had miscalibrated her and realized I should have played up my asshole side. Consequently, likelihood of a second date was low. When I go out with girls I have a system where I rank them according to how much asshole behavior they will need to open their legs heart for me. I’m usually pretty good at this and can switch on my asshole persona at will.

For instance, if she’s a 10 on the 1 to 10 asshole craving scale, I will occasionally tell her, with a flash of anger, to “shut the fuck up” when she tries to shit test me. If she’s a 1, I’ll be Mr. Nice Guy and compliment her on her choice of shoes. If she’s in the middle of the asshole craving scale (where most cute young girls are), I’ll get her to buy me an expensive drink. Normally, I can accurately assess whether a girl is an asshole craver early in the pickup, usually within the first minute, by how bright her eyes shine when I disrespect her. If she pushes me away in mock indignation, that tells me I’ve hit pay dirt. But this time my date’s calm, intelligent, giggle-free demeanor and conservative dress had me fooled into thinking she had a low asshole craving quotient. A rookie mistake.

A part of me was pleased that I was on a date trying to get into the panties of the same girl that the infamous Mystery tried and, presumably, failed to pick up a few weeks earlier. But a bigger part of me was grossed out by the nagging thought that every girl I’ve dated in the past three years has been hit on over and over by hundreds, maybe thousands, of acolytes of the game all running the same routines and wearing matching armbands and unusual pendants.

Later that night, after the date, I went to another bar and asked two girls how well they knew each other. They said the night before a guy had given them “the best friends test and asked us what shampoo we used.” I made a mental note to pirate the Pimsleur series on learning Polish.

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Things I’ve Learned

Pulling up in a cab to a hipster dive bar is a major social faux pas. This was news to me. You see, hipsters have an image in their heads of what guys piling out of a cab on a Friday night look like — either Georgetown clones or A|X wearing K street club monsters — so when a cab pulls up to their favorite hole in the wall eyebrows are raised. Any hipster worth his calculated pose of cynical detachment would walk to his bar of choice since he authentically lives a few blocks from it. I’m pretty sure the doorman laughed out loud when he saw our cab.

Speaking of hipsters, it is now considered retrograde to actually call them by their rightful name.

Me: This place is pretty much hipster central, huh?

Girl: No one calls them hipsters anymore.

Me: So what do you call them?

Girl: Nothing.

Me: OK, then I guess you guys like to hang out in a bar full of nothings.

Irony doesn’t make it taste better.

I plan to go to the same place next weekend and test their patience by wearing pointy shoes.

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A Hallmark Moment

It is late in the night and two grown men are driving home from the clubs. Navigating cop cars and pedestrians on [x], we notice a couple of bicyclists on our right. Nearing the first bicyclist we can’t help but trumpet a horny ode to her luscious figure 8 derriere as she pedals hard in the chill air.

“Hey man, over there. What an ass on her! The cheeks just hug the shit out of that bike seat. Look at the way the ass globes move up and down in perfect harmony.”

“Love that ponytail. It says all the right things — grab the reins while you pound me.”

We drive past her.

“Dude, she’s hot! Face to match the ass. So many cute bike babes.”

We approach the second biker from behind.

“Whoa, another one. Check out this chick. Beautiful blonde hair. I love long blonde hair. Look at those jeans pulled down low.”

“Niiice, I see some white panties poking out! Is that plumber’s crack? Sweeeeeeet.”

We drive slowly by the second biker.

“AUUUGHHH!!! It’s a dude! Oh man, fuck! AUUUUGGGHHHH! What the fuck!? What dude wears his hair like that??”

“FUCK! SHIT! UGH! I’m hitting the lesbian porn as soon as I get home. Pull your pants up you hipster slob! Night ruined!”

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I Joined Twitter

I think it’s retarded. But when the whole world is being retarded it pays to join them. It’ll make life easier and you’ll feel better.

I’m a Killer App Konformist.

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Take The Midnight Tran

Sometimes when you date a girl she drops hints that send up red flags.

“I usually need to get to know a guy before I have sex.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Ew, you’ve done it in there?!”

“I missed my period. Oh, and I’m pro-life and my dad’s a paternity lawyer.”

So it was with some trepidation that I dated this one girl who joked a few times about being a tranny. On our first date I mentioned I liked her artsy shoes and punk makeup and she said “Yeah, I bet you think I dress like a tranny.” OK, that got me concerned. I looked more closely at her shoes and face and wondered if it could be true. She didn’t have a low voice but I’ve read about cosmetic vocal cord surgery for old people who want to sound younger.

The second date we were making out and groping and I reached down and ran my hand under her skirt and near her pussy, hoping to put my worries to rest. She gently pushed my hand away, smiled, and said “Are you checking if I’m a tranny? Naughty.” Now I was really freaking out on the inside. When people blurt out weirdness more than once it is a sign of them hiding something. Could she really have been a man in her past? Was I going to have a crying game moment? She didn’t look like a tranny, but with the state of medical science these days you can’t take anything for granted.

Between the second and third dates I dwelled heavily on the possibility that she might be a guy with one operation to go, or a former guy with a butchered fake vagina constructed out of sheep intestine. A few sleepless nights passed. I googled “transsexual dead giveaway” for information about warning signs. I contemplated not calling her back. Nope, I had to see this through.

On the third date, sex was the farthest thing from my mind. I was concentrating hard on inspecting her head to toe for traces of maleness. Again, she let slip with an awkward “joke” involving the word tranny. Mentally, I was a mess. I thought about how she walked with this loping bouncy gait. And how she had these exaggeratedly feminine gestures in the way she sat down and crossed her legs very slowly, and how she carried her purse dangling off her forearm with her elbow bent at 90 degrees and her hand turned upward, palm out. Oh my fucking god, that’s what trannies do! Then I remembered… she was always paying me blatant compliments about my physique. Girls never do that on the first couple of dates, even when they are completely into you. 100% tranny. 100%.

The squirrel in my head was running frantically on his wheel.

Still, she looked pretty good, so I started french kissing her. Gradually, I moved my mouth down and kissed her neck. I began probing her throat with my tongue. This aroused her suspicion. 

“What are you doing?”

Think. “Mm, I love kissing your neck. So smooth.” Like a giraffe reaching out for the highest succulent acacia leaves, my tongue pressed around the area where her Adam’s apple would be if she were a man. I detected nothing. Phew! Or did she have it surgically removed? I pulled back for a visual examination. No scar. Phew again!

Occasionally, I would stop and stare deeply into her eyes, but what I was really doing was getting in close to see if she had the shadow of a mustache or a missed spot of stubble. I wondered if an entire beard could be lasered off. No, her face was hairless and of an even coloration. Another test passed. I glanced at her forearms. Also hairless. So far so good. I gripped her hand; she gripped back. Not too strong, it was an appropriately weak girly grip. Feeling better. I moved my hand under her shirt and burrowed under her bra. This was the first major test. I squeezed and kneaded like I was giving her a breast exam. Then I pushed aside her bra and pinched a nipple. It got hard and pointy. There’s no way a fake tit or hormone replacement could do that. I was confident enough to move to the final stage.

In the bedroom, I lit a small candle. I would need some light to work by. Best to get this over with quick. I maneuvered my hand up her skirt and placed it on her crotch. Her panties felt thick, padded. A rush of fear. Was s/he tucking? For the first time in my life I prayed that a girl I was about to fuck was on the rag.

This was it. Crunch time. No turning tail now, I had to know. But the risk was huge.

Other than blowing out my ass with explosive diarrhea in public while wearing white linen pants, I can’t think of a more psychologically scarring scenario than reaching into a girl’s panties and grabbing a schlong. I had already made up my mind to soldier on because I calculated that the regret of giving up sex with a girl was worse than the regret of having near sex with a man.

Off came her shirt. A muscular back. Stay focused.

I pushed her backwards onto the bed and pressed into her pelvis. Nothing rose on her to meet my erection. Do or die. I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and ripped off her skirt and panties and in one mighty uninterrupted motion plunged my hand into her furrow.

Labia. Wet. Hole. Wet. Clit. Wet.

A wave of relief swept over me. I pried my eyes open and smiled warmly at the authentic vagina before me. A short sniff of my fingers confirmed the presence of natural juices. No lube.

Afterwards, she snuggled in my arms and belched. I dumped her a week later.

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