Hormonal Surge

Conventional wisdom is that human females don’t go into heat — that is, their ovulation is hidden from male discernment — but I believe this is only partially true. The bars and clubs during the last couple weeks have been drenched in intoxicating estrogen. I notice this each year when spring begins, right around the end of March and beginning of April. The women are on the prowl, and the men are slabs of beef dangling from meathooks for inspection.

What does a roomful of sexually excited women look like? ADHD liplicking gigglebombs with perpetual pelvic grind syndrome.

The women jump from one man to the next, heaving their bosoms and smiling with glossed lips, expressing the full sensuality of their bodies in arched backs, thighs rubbing together, fingertips lightly grazing every available surface. They want the men to suffocate on their womanly bouquet, to lose control. Attention whoring is at DefCon “I’m on PornoHub” level. It’s been a hassle lately to keep one woman’s attention for long because their raging hormones are driving them to sample every man within sight, until the best cock they can afford presses its chub against her belly. That’s been the downside. The upside is that there’s a new woman eager to talk to you everywhere you turn.

Unfortunately, this nirvana won’t last long. By mid-April, the estrogen surge will have depleted itself, and most of these horny chicks will have either gotten themselves boyfriends or regressed back to their usual bitchy, arms crossed selves. Your window to act is short. Smart men know that this is the time of year to go out every night of the week to fatten up on the bounty. Be like the crocodiles gorging on the stampede of wildebeest crossing the treacherous river during their annual migration.

Men don’t understand the compulsion of the springtime female hormonal surge because our hormones surge year round. We might have a downtick in our libido now and then, like after brain surgery or a death in the family (immediate relations only), but mostly we’re good to go regardless of the season. I’m especially immune to hormone surges because my libido is at a constantly elevated state. If it goes any higher the tip could explode.

Read Full Post »

Used

Three girls, two guys. One of the guys was obviously gay. (hellOOOO) He had gay face. The girl closest to me, a blonde with a wholesome midwestern look, strokes my jacket sleeve.

“I like the way your jacket feels.”

“Any excuse to cop a feel, eh?”

“What’s it made of?”

“Silkworm. It’s very rare.” I scan the group trying to figure out the social dynamic. One girl was talking to the (presumably) straight guy in intense, eyes locked conversation. She would not cockblock. Another girl was glancing expectantly around the room, perhaps waiting for a boyfriend? She was a cockblock threat. The gay guy was a fat black man playing the role of the mother hen. He was a high risk cockblock.

I address the gay first. “Is your friend here always like this? Touching random stranger’s jackets?”

“Don’t we all!” (Boy, do I know how to call it). “She’s a sweetheart. Isn’t that right, Katy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I want him to think.” She winks at me. The gay turns away and begins sipping his drink through a straw loudly, exaggerating the purse of his lips. He would no longer be a threat. She must have signaled him. I missed the signal. Too subtle.

I talk with Katy for ten minutes before remembering to check her single status. Gotta be smooth when screening for BFs. “How do you know everyone here?”

She gives me the rundown. The other guy is the BF of the girl talking to him. I lean in a little closer to her ear.

“Your friend here,” I motion toward her single friend craning her neck and searching the room, “looks like she’s waiting patiently for someone.”

“Yeah, her boyfriend is coming.”

I lean back and let a few seconds pass. She smiles at me. Ok, I was in the clear. Katy was the odd girl out. Fresh unspoiled meat.

We talk for a half hour. My game is not the sharpest it’s been, in fact I’m a little bit sloppy, but she eats it up like a hungry she-wolf. In hindsight, her extremely positive reaction to my less than stellar game should have been a red flag, but I carried on as if the number close, or even the same night bang, was inevitable. As evidenced by all the arm touching and flicking of hair, she responds very well. Time for a calculated reposition.

“Hey, looks like your friends are pretty busy having fun in their own world. There’s an empty space just over there where we can sit and be a little more comfortable. Let’s move.”

Her smile goes crooked. “Well… I’m waiting for my boyfriend. He’s coming here, too.” She shrugs her shoulders and raises her eyebrows apologetically.

BEEEEEYOTCH.

I stare at her with steely eyes until she gets slightly uncomfortable. I am not smiling at all. I want her to notice my displeasure. I think about calling her out in the manner of Roosh’s campaign to call out cockblocks and shame them in public. Perhaps say something like “I didn’t think you’d be the type of girl to conveniently forget to mention your boyfriend just for attention from other guys. I wonder what he would think of that?”

Instead, I held my tongue and simply gave her the backturn. She didn’t attempt to re-engage. She knew she had committed a grievous lie of omission and the jig was up.

I was used. Emotional rape. She had exacted her tribute — a half hour of my valuable time and energy that could have been better spent on available women. Mission accomplished: Ego validated.

Thinking back, I see a pattern. Girls with boyfriends are often the happiest girls to be the target of my game. They are bored; they need that constant revalidation of their desirability to new men. They may or may not be in love with their boyfriends, it doesn’t seem to matter much. The need for male attention is an addiction that never really goes away, even when they’re 70 and the young man tells them how fetching their blue hair is. Only girls who are deeply in love are granted temporary immunity from the urge to whore attention. This phase usually lasts about 6 months. Two years tops.

Soulmates who never need validation from anyone else but each other are as rare as pink diamonds. If you are in this type of relationship, count your blessings. You have won the quality girl lottery.

Later, I chastised myself for not getting her to cough up the BF information sooner.

Read Full Post »

Predator Sluts

Welcome to the New Whore Order.

The author of a controversial new book says she was so desperate for a baby she got pregnant ‘accidentally on purpose’ in a one-night stand. KATE SPICER admits that – like many women  – she’s played the same dangerous game…

Three weeks ago, I bought a pregnancy test. As a single, childless woman in my late 30s, my exact thoughts while I was waiting for the result were as follows: ‘If I am not pregnant, then good. I’m happy.

Life continues as before. Panic over. If I am pregnant, then that’s terrifying. But thrilling, too. A happy accident that was meant to happen, whether I stay with the father or not.’

If you’ve been a regular reader here, you could see this coming a mile away. Aging careerist shrikes on the cusp of sexual invisibility, like spent fuel rods from years of putting out for pump and dump alphas who wisely chose not to marry these damaged goods, are feeling the pangs of childlessness. Awash in discretionary income and free of the constraints of social shaming, they could afford to avoid dating the provider betas in favor of slutting it up with the same rotation of cads their girlfriends are banging. Oh, the drama was so enticing!

Then she woke up one morning, pressed a hand against her vacant, nearly barren womb, and shuddered in silence as the icy finger of irrelevant spinsterhood sent a shiver down her spine. She had made a mistake.

So what does she do now?

Why, she tries to rope utterly self-interested guys like yours truly into fun-killing fatherhood!

Some of these women approach the task in a far more ruthless manner than Mary Pols did, purposefully going out and sleeping with men when they know they are at their most fertile.

In America, they even have a name for this – they call them ‘gotcha’ pregnancies. Many of the women involved deliberately avoid birth control and have no intention of letting their unwitting bedfellow know this.

Never mind that these succubi claim to have no intention of hitting the guy up for child support. Women, bless their amoral hearts, are known to change their minds on a whim when it suits them. A woman’s slapdash principles and the vast anti-male legal industrial complex are cold comfort for the modern playboy. You must look out for yourself.

How to spot a potential predator slut with designs on the babymaking power of your ball juice?

There ya go. Just look for the crows’ feet, saggy tits, and chest age spots.

The most dangerous woman in the world to sleep with is the childless, unmarried cougar. Their clock is rapidly winding down, their dying eggs are sending out distress signals, and they have no cuckold beta husband upon which to foist a bastard child. Either avoid them like the plague or double up on industrial strength condoms.

Here’s a handy reference guide for precautionary measures to take when banging the childless woman.

• If she’s under 25, college educated, lives in the city, has had an abortion, spends more than 40% of her take home pay on drinks and clothes, concurrently dates, has slutty girlfriends, and talks about spending a couple years to travel the world:  Skip the condom and enjoy some skin on skin action. Blast inside her, you renegade! Odds are she’s on the pill, and if not, no worries — she’s on a first name basis with her abortionist. Bonus creampie if she’s a lawyer.
• If she’s 25-30 and all of the above, you had better start being careful where your boys lodge themselves. Use a condom for the first few weeks, then tentatively move to rawdogging. Check if she’s on the pill, but that’s not always a guarantee of child-free bliss. Too many girls — woops! — forget to take it the day you shoot inside her. To avoid this breach of contract, exercise the pull out option. Over the years collecting notches, your timing will become exquisite. You’ll be able to calculate down to the millisecond when you’re about to unload, and pull out at the exact moment you jizz. When you get really good at this, the narrow escape, optimal money shot reposition to her belly, back, or eye, and first stream of jizz will all happen elegantly in one smooth motion, like a hardcore ballet dance — The Nutbuster. It is crucial that you wipe her off with a towel or dirty sock yourself. Don’t leave that responsibility to her. I’ve heard horror stories of girls taking a dollop of the guy’s bellybutton load onto their fingers and inserting it into themselves while he was in the bathroom pissing.
• If she’s 30-35 and has a stupidly fluffy cat or toy dog, you are sailing into stormy waters. Why you would even bother with this kind of woman is beyond me, but let’s assume for purposes of discussion that she is well-preserved and has a hot body. Not only is this chick desperate to get impregnated, she is also more likely to be loaded down with a petri dish worth of STDs. If you insist on rawdogging it with her and blasting on her belly or back, scrub her down with sperm killing soap afterwards. You can do this by gently cajoling her into the shower after sex. Keep an eye on her hands, making sure they don’t go anywhere near your spooge or her vaj. If you use a condom, dispose of it in the toilet, not the garbage. Remember to flush!
• If she’s over 35 and without child or husband, you cannot be too careful. Use two of your OWN condoms (pinprick free) and drop them in an incinerator when you’re done. If no incinerator is available, place the used condom in an airtight iron lockbox for disposal at the local landfill or off the side of an ocean liner. If you make a mistake and blast on her belly, vacuum that shit up. Wiping with your underwear isn’t failsafe enough. If you are truly stupid and blast inside her — drop to your knees and start praying to the god of infertility (Jennifer Aniston) while arranging for your accounts to be moved overseas.

Whatever you do, never let a girl dispose of the condom for you. It sounds crazy, but I’ve been with more than one woman who would do just this. She would grab for the soiled condom and say “I’ll take care of that for you.” I was smart enough to know not to trust a woman with my spermed up condom by herself in the bathroom, so I told her she was acting weird, and flushed the condom myself. Fucking nutso broads.

People have asked me: if you don’t want kids why not just get the ol’ snippity snip? If you treasure your glorious package as much as I treasure mine, you’ll understand why I don’t want scalpels anywhere near there.

It’s too bad men don’t have a right to rip unwanted fetuses from the wombs of women who duped them into fatherhood. At the very least, a law predicated on true fairness would allow men to abort their financial responsibility for any child they didn’t agree on having with a predator slut. I won’t be holding my breath for that day to come.

PS: The title of this post is the working title for my coming magnum opus.

Read Full Post »

“I think BJs are gross”

I gently coaxed her head down toward my boner. Her hand vigorously pumped. Handjobs are lame. Most girls don’t do them right, chafing and tugging like maniacs, as if they’re pulling a weed out by the roots. I wanted the mouth upgrade. She resisted.

“No, I’m not doing that.”

“Oh?”

“I think blowjobs are gross. Eww. I don’t like that in my mouth. It’s not the same as going down on a girl.”

She had experimented with women back in the day. I thought for a second about what she said. More gross going down on cock than pussy? No way. It’s the difference between slurping on a hot dog and smearing your face with pubes and mucousy, unidentifiable juices.

“Wow, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

She bristled. “Most women don’t actually like it.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl I’ve ever been with who didn’t like giving head.” I was being truthful.

“Well, they aren’t going to tell you that they don’t like it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But if they weren’t enjoying it, their moans of pleasure sure fooled me.”

“I don’t even like sex that much.”

I squinted at her, growing less aroused with each word she uttered. “Uh, ok.”

“Yeah, it’s not all that much of a turn-on for me. I get off when a guy goes down on me. That’s the best.”

Even though her hand was wrapped tight around my rod, I deflated like a week-old balloon. She spread her legs a little wider and began touching herself. She smiled at me and looked down at her pussy. “Mmm, I love when a guy goes down there. Like he can’t get enough of me.” Her fingers glistened with the proof of her arousal.

I admired her gall in the face of her abject hypocrisy. But there was no way I was eating her out. I have a rule I follow which has held me in good stead for my entire copulatory career: I don’t go down on a girl until she has gone down on me first, assuming she smells OK. Exception to the rule: She’d have to be extraordinarily hot, a 9 or above, for me to be inspired by my uncontrollable horniness to munch away in advance of her putting me in her mouth. And it’d have to be obvious by her writhing enthusiasm that she was geared up for some bigtime raunchy sex and a blowjob in due course.

The reason for this rule is simple. You have to make a girl earn your tongue. That means hummers and fucking first. It may sound calculating, but this is the way girls think. If you give her everything she wants for free, she will have less incentive to bend over backwards (literally) to please you in every way you want to be pleased. Blowjobs will seem like “special treats” in her mind that she blesses you with when you’ve been especially good to her. This is not how you properly train your girlfriend or fuckbuddy. Instead, hold back on the oral sex until she’s proven her worth by meeting your demands.

You always want her in the frame of mind of seeking your approval, pleasing you first, and working overtime to enjoy the breadcrumbs of attention you sprinkle on her. *That*, readers, is the foundation of hot, frequent sex. She *wants* to feel the struggle of earning your prize member, and your pricey love. Give her what she wants by withholding what she wants. As in all things women, the paradox is primary.

There are four reasons why a girl would balk at giving blowjobs.

1. She’s sexually repressed. These types aren’t too common in DC, but they do exist. I give sluts a hard time, but her twisted sister, the Frigid Ice Queen, is just as distressing. At the first signs you have a sex-averse girl on your hands, run, do not walk, to the nearest exit. Odds are not good that you will unplug the Freudian sludge that clogs her pussy pipe. You may, but you probably won’t. And the worst decision a man can make in his life is to marry an Ice Queen. Worse even than marrying a slut with cheating whore issues. You will suffer endless blueball torment as her parched snapper slowly drains the masculinity out of you and drives you to the brink of insanity. Red flag: Her father is a preacher.
2. She really doesn’t like giving blowjobs. If you’re like most men and you love getting head, there’s no point sticking it out with a girl like this, no matter how well she cooks. But don’t worry, this kind is rare. It’s been my experience that any girl who is very attracted to you will love sucking your cock. Most girls won’t need to be asked, or have their head pushed into position.
3. She’s testing you. Some girls will make you wait it out for the goodies, teasing you with a lick on the shaft or a tip in their asshole, until you’ve satsified their need to know you are really into them. These types have been burned by men they loved, and regard your infinite patience and heavy balls as evidence that you love her for more than her body. Avoid her. You don’t want a girl in your life who uses sex as a weapon. You don’t want a girl who views sex as an all-in-one tool for self-validating ego-prop.
4. She’s atoning for her past slutty ways. Of the four types listed here, this type is the most loathsome. She’s a brazen bitch. A selfish headcase. Damaged goods. She’s been on a merry-go-round of cock since puberty and woke up one morning feeling bad about it. Now she sees it as her duty to make amends for her whorish history, and you are her experimental beta guinea pig. “I’m not a slut!” pleads her shattered, spooged id. “And I’m going to prove it with this guy!” So she refrains from gobbling your cock, or makes you wait past the 3rd date for sex, thinking she can silence the screaming of the slut as a born-again prude. This is new ground she’s on, so she’s bound to be clumsy about it. You’ll hear her say incongruous things like “Stop pressuring me!” as she’s splayed out naked on your bed, legs spread wide, pussy leaving juice spots on your sheets. Her transparent act II psychodrama will infuriate you. What drives a man nuttier than knowing he’s being deviously denied that which so many other men have boffed freely? But what this deluded girl doesn’t know is that you have game. You have no trouble scoring. She can push you one, maybe two, dates more than your three date rule for sex, but she will inevitably push too far. And the bigger slut she’s been in her previous life, the harder she will attempt to atone for it by crushing your spirit. In a Battle Royale between a Rules Girl and a Player, always bet on player. You will walk, never looking back, your dignity flush with victory and your sack spared her wicked games. She can practice keeping her legs shut on another sucker. You’re not her sacrificial slut redeemer.

Maxim #71: When a girl signals that she doesn’t enjoy blowjobs or sex, do not spend one second more with her. Your libido is too important to gamble on such a girl.

Read Full Post »

Anti-Game

Damian and I were at a multi-floored historic building converted into a lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city.

Damian bumped my elbow and motioned me to look toward two attractive blondes — a 7.5 and an 8.5 — who were standing near us. Two men had just walked up and engaged them in conversation. Both men were, as far as I can tell these things, decent-looking, over 6 feet tall, and in shape. One was older– late 30s, early 40s — and sharply dressed with a dash of gray around the temples. His buddy was late 20s, early 30s, and dressed more casually. The younger guy had a frat boy-ish vibe, while the older guy struck a more sophisticated pose.

Since all four of them were within earshot, I focused my listening attention on the group, occasionally glancing over, so I could enjoy the spectacle of these guys running whatever game they had on the two blondes. When I see a choice setup like this, I take it as an opportunity to observe and learn or, in the case of men with no game, to amuse myself and gawk at the carnage, while positioning for a flanking maneuver.

Approach

The men went straight in, telegraphing their interest from the word “go”. Opened with “Hey, how you guys doing?” Points for boldness, demerits for shitty opener. Even in socially overheated crowded venues, the best approach is noncommittal — from an angle, over the shoulder. Also, it doesn’t hurt to be a little more creative than “How you doin’?”.

Girls’ Reaction

The poor approach didn’t hurt these guys. The girls welcomed them with big smiles and enthusiastic hellos, probably because the men were reasonably good-looking compared to the average man in the place. The older man looked like he was of means.

Body Language

The men registered the girls’ positive reaction and took the beta bait, amping up their energy levels and enthusiasm. This was my first hint that a pickup attempt disaster was looming. The younger guy began grinning ear to ear like an idiot, and bobbing his head up and down each time the girls talked. The older guy maintained a more aloof body language, keeping his back straight and avoiding any “pecking” or leaning into the girls. He didn’t wildly smile like his fratboy buddy. I could see he had more self-control and experience than his younger friend. His economy of words and body movement made him seem the more confident of the two men. If I noticed that, then surely the girls noticed it as well.

Conversation

The men ran what I call Chit Chat Game. This is the kind of conversation you make with someone when you are bereft of anything interesting to say. “What do you think of this place?” “You guys live in the city?” “Hey, the martinis here are really good.” “You guys like to dance?” “Whoa, you’re from North Carolina?” “How about those Tar Heels!” The fratboy latched onto this subject because it was in his comfort zone. “Yeah, you’re a Tar Heels fan? All riiiiiight!! High five!”. He tried to hold the high five with the 7.5 for a second too long, but she dropped her hand fast.

Yes, the guys were actually talking college sports. I could *feel* the initial attraction drain out of the girls, like a nail in a tire slowly letting out air. Their smiles had turned plastic, and they began gripping their drinks tighter and holding them up higher on their chests. The hotter one made a series of quick sidelong surveys around the room.

The older man wasn’t talking as much, but when he did he had a steadier, calmer cadence than his sports fan friend. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t lead and take control of the conversation when it started sputtering into lame sports talk territory. What he did contribute was of the “business interview” variety. More mature than gushing over the Tar Heels to be sure, but still death for pickup.

Escape

Surprisingly, Fric and Frac managed to stay in set for fifteen minutes. I chalked it up to the niceness of the girls — they were very forgiving of horrid game that would have sent the typical urban lawyer chick into massive shit test, ball crushing mode, after suckering the tools for free drinks of course. These two girls must have been from out of town — way out of town.

The 7.5 delivered the cockblock signal to her friend — a thin-lipped entreaty and an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise — but that was all it took for her to get the message.

“Well, we’re going to go upstairs now. See you!” As they turned and slithered away from the men, Fratboy looked over his shoulder at them and in a sickeningly pleading voice moaned “Aww, you guys are going upstairs?? All right, maybe we’ll see you up there!” The girls didn’t bother looking back.

Denouement

Damian found all this the height of hilarity, but also was overcome with an urge to pummel the beta out of these guys. He believes bad game is more nauseating than eating a spoiled enchilada. It really is like rubbernecking at a particularly gruesome car accident. I enjoy bad game in others because it means less competition for me. This is why I support gay rights. I want as many men as possible to feel comfortable embracing the butt pirate lifestyle and thus removing themselves from hetero circulation.

Fratboy and Boring Gent talked amongst themselves, obviously planning a way to reconnect with the girls. Someone needed to be charitable and interject to explain the futility of their situation, but no man’s ego is strong enough to handle that sort of constructive criticism, especially not in the chaos of the field. Instead, we watched them climb up the stairs to meet their by now long gone girls.

We didn’t have the heart to tell them that the only thing upstairs were the bathrooms.

Rebirth

Later, I bumped into the hotter girl on the first level of the club. I smiled at her.

“So, how did those guys do?”

She laughed.

*********

A lot of losers in love insist that “being yourself” is morally superior to “manipulating and seducing” a girl with game. They have an instinctual aversion to anything that doesn’t conform to the beta script of “boy meets girl and sometimes magic happens in a most satisfyingly natural and unforced way, as God intended”. They believe any conscious effort to make oneself more attractive to the opposite sex is inherently dishonest.

They are wrong. Honesty is recognizing that women have different desires and appealing to that. Dishonesty with yourself is ignoring this fundamental fact of the sexes, and selfishly expecting women to be attracted to your principled obstinacy.

What game-hating beta losers don’t comprehend is that the opposite of Game — casual chit chat — can increase a man’s failure rate with women who would otherwise prefer that he not disappoint them so. “Being yourself” isn’t an ethically or strategically neutral stance; it is an unnecessarily negative obstacle to connecting with women in the way they want you to connect with them. Despite what women claim, they would really rather you run some game on them so they can feel those good feelings that are aroused by skilled practitioners of the art of indulging the female psyche. They just don’t want you to tell them you’re running game.

The two girls were happy to be approached by the two men on account of their style and looks. But Anti-Game quickly eroded whatever attraction was there initially. These guys were being themselves, and it cost them dearly. They were “honest” according to the beta playbook, and they were punished for their honesty.

Anti-Game is the equivalent of being an ill-prepared Boy Scout. Anti-Game is to men what going out wearing baggy pants and flannel shirt, no makeup, and greasy, unkempt hair is to women. Sure, you may be good-looking enough to pull some ass despite your lack of game or your figure-concealing unflattering clothes, but you’ll be needlessly limiting your options.

Read Full Post »

Sex And Socks

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

Read Full Post »

Ex Categories

One of the advantages of having a lot of experience under your belt is the fun you can have amusing yourself by categorizing your exes. And then writing a blog post about it later.

• Fondly remembered

She was a good girl (rare). She treated you well. She loved you right. But maybe she was a point or two below your beauty ideal, so you left her to hunt for hotter quarry, walking away with nothing but warm memories of her. You miss her in that “wistfully smile thinking of her” way, not in that “gotta get back with her and tap that one more time” way. Normally, we refer to these girls as “former lovers” (you broke up on good terms) or “past lovers” (she moved to another country), not “exes”. Her inner beauty is the standard by which you measure every woman you date.

• Indifferent

If she’s in your indifferent category, she should consider herself lucky… you won’t stalk her underneath her bedroom window, masturbating furiously. After a few days have passed post-breakup, you’ll be hard pressed to remember the name of a girl in this category. She was nothing more than a vagina supported by a human organism that you pleasured yourself into.

• Hated Hos

These exes are the ropey tapeworm-infested turds that issued from Satan’s scalding anus. They represented the worst of the modern American woman. Odds are she was a lawyer or PR rep. Your “relationship” with her felt like war, with troops amassed on the field of hate, locked in eternal struggle, gaining or losing inches of emotional territory, a Battle Royale for “hand”. The upside to inspiring your hate is that you learn a valuable lesson from them… namely, how to spot their kind before they “accidentally” leave their earrings at your place. If you post an internet sex vid of an ex, this is the girl you will gleefully dishonor. Consider it proactive karma.

• Regretfully remembered

You don’t hate these exes, but you wish you hadn’t got involved with them. A girl in this category has left you with a bad taste in your mouth and a rash on your junk. She’s the one you found out later had been with triple digit sex partners before she met you, and probably a few more while you were dating. You’ve caught her flirting with the guy at your favorite fast food joint who prepares your falafel platter, and you wondered what the hell else they had going on. She’s a psycho, a stalker, a slut, a drama queen, a catty backstabber, and a utensil-throwing, suicide-threatening, hey-check-out-my-big-black-dildo, stick-her-finger-up-your-asshole-during-sex whirlwind of whorishness all wrapped up in one. She was good to you on paper, but you couldn’t compete with her id — all she could do was think with her clit. This is the girl who made a confirmed cynic out of you. She is the most likely candidate to wind up a pathetic cougar.

• That one sex act

Every guy has flashbacks of intense sexual moments with one or more of their exes. Women remember anniversaries, gifts given and received, the color of your shirt when you first kissed her, but we men mostly remember one thing — that time we had you bent over the back of the sofa with your jeans down around your ankles as we were drilling you from behind and watching the whole thing in a floor length mirror nearby. In fact, a man can measure the strength of his love for an ex and how long it will take him to get over her by the number and clarity of sex acts he remembers. The dirty memory of a truly hot ex will give a guy a boner faster than a mediocre looking girl standing right in front of him.

• The one who got away

Don’t front, tough guy. Every man has that One Girl (or ten girls) Who Got Away, taunting him from the shadows of his past. If you don’t, you haven’t lived. You’ve learned so much from your experience with this one girl, and you’ve become a better man for it, stronger in spirit and resilient in adversity, but… you still wish it hadn’t fallen apart. She is the force of nature against which all future women will compete… and come up short.

Read Full Post »