Toothbrush Game

There’s always a tense moment in the bright light of the morning after a stumbling late night hookup when the girl needs to use the bathroom and you feel a rush of anxiety as you wonder what personal items you have prominently displayed on your sink.  Eyebrow tweezers?  Check.  Five different facial scrubs and masks?  Check.  An old piece of used floss with bits of debris still on it that missed the garbage can?  Check.  And the state of cleanliness of your throne.  Did you leave the seat up providing her with a glorious panoramic view of your urine and pube encrusted toilet rim?

If you intend to fully embrace the role of skirt-chaser then keeping your bathroom in order and sparkling clean with potentially embarrassing personal effects hidden from sight will have to be a daily ritual.  Having a fresh spare toothbrush is one of those priorities.  A girl will receive your appendages into her womanhood but will balk at using your toothbrush.

Me:  There’s a toothbrush on the sink for you.
Her:  Why do you have a second toothbrush?
Me:  Umm… in case I drop mine in the toilet bowl.
Her:  Do you always stand over the toilet bowl when you’re brushing your teeth?
Me:  Yes, I pee and brush at the same time.  I like to multitask.
Her:  It’s frayed.
Me:  What?
Her:  The bristles are frayed.  Who else used this?
Me:  I probably did in the middle of the night.  It’s hard to tell which is which.
Her:  I can’t brush with this.
Me:  Look, if it bothers you that much use your finger.

There’s no way around the toothbrush conundrum except to have a new brush still in its original packaging ready to go for each girl.  I don’t want to run a dentist’s office or waste a toothbrush on the mouth of a one night stand, so they get a frayed brush now.  If they protest too much at least I know I’m dealing with an anal retentive freak.

Instead of pressing the matter she gamely ignored it.  That’s all girls really need — a ridiculous excuse so they can continue loving you.

I Can’t Make This Shit Up

There was a shitstorm recently from offended female lawyers about my post on judging a woman’s femininity, sexual adventurism and relationship-worthiness based on her job.  I was tough on a number of different kinds of careerist chicks, but it was the lawyers who took the most umbrage and came out swinging their clitdicks with a vengeance, thereby proving my point in the most satisfactory way possible.

I’ve relied on my experience dating lawyers to bring my readers valuable first-hand knowledge of their inherent afeminine bitterbitch blackened souls of ballcuttery.  Truly, female lawyers (with one, OK, maybe two, exceptions) are a special breed of succubus you will not feel the slightest bit of guilt dumping a violent fuck into and leaving before the cum has crusted up on her face.

Sometimes, though, one man’s experiences aren’t enough to convince men thinking about dating a lawyer.  So we have stories like this to hammer home the message.

 Elana and David Glatt have filed a $400,000 suit against an Upper East Side florist, charging it caused them “extreme disappointment, distress and embarrassment” on what was supposed to be the greatest day of their lives by providing the wrong-colored hydrangeas for their Aug. 11 nuptials.

[…]

“After spending nearly $30,000 and over 12 months planning the flowers for their wedding, the flowers were not even close to what plaintiffs had bargained and paid for,” the Glatts charge.

[…]

“They sent us 200, 250 e-mails changing things up until the last minute. We did everything they wanted,” [the florist] said.

[…]

The suit says that was a disastrous difference, because “colors had been specifically chosen to match the tones of the room.”

As self-parody goes, this is high art.

Leaving aside the legal issues here and the exhorbitant damages she’s seeking, just try to imagine what it would be like to pledge your lifelong devotion to a woman who would spend $30K on wedding flowers and email the florist over 200 times with updated requests for getting the arrangements just right.  Is there any man alive who, if he were in the groom’s shoes, wouldn’t feel like an afterthought at a wedding like that?  A woman who is more in love with the wedding ceremony than with the man she is marrying = classic American cunt.

I can just picture what their marriage is going to be like:

“You got the regular 3-ply?  I TOLD you to get the strawberry scented 6-ply toilet paper!  WHY can’t you do anything right??  Only the little people get chafed assholes!!!”

Here is a photo of the hell cat:

i win cases with my adam’s apple!

Look closely.  Notice the alpha male glare in her eyes, the kind of aggressive glee you normally see on the face of a used car salesman who’s just suckered you into forking over full price for a lemon.  Her clenched jaw which says she is ready to do battle, anywhere, anytime.  The severe, triple-lacquered hairstyle with not one stray strand daring to spring out of line suggesting in her a tendency to view the sex act as either a necessary annoyance on the way to getting what she wants or a stress reliever before a big day at the office crushing testicles.  And is that a power suit with shoulder pads?

In short, nothing about this woman hints at anything feminine.  She sold her yin to the devil for a gift registry of wealth and taste.  Her sense of entitlement is so bloated no man could possibly keep his dignity and satisfy her at the same time.  And she doesn’t even have the saving grace of being hot.  Which brings us to the husband.  What kind of man marries a woman like this?  The answer is in the photo:

no, really, we’re in love.

Merry douchemas!  This guy looks like he’s already pre-emptively cheating on her and high-fiving his buddies about it over beers at Scores.  I’m wishing with my mind that he’ll do to his wife what Chad did to that deaf girl in the movie “In the Company of Men” and then excuse himself from humanity and get run over by a bus.

What we have in this case study is the epitome of everything that is wrong with 21st century American womanhood.  Luckily, all indicators are that these simulacra of women are having fewer kids than their more nurturing and traditional sisters, so I expect the wave of fembots currently clawing their way through the corporate machine to eventually dwindle to irrelevant numbers.

As much as you desperately want to believe your hard work and ivy league credentials matters to your mating prospects, ladies, men don’t give a shit what you do for a living.  In fact, as this story illustrates, your high-powered career will make you less of a catch, not more.  Men compete with other men all day long; the last thing they want is to come home and lock horns with ballbusting women.  And lawyers, being the generic parasites they are, are the worst of the worst.

On a related subject, I’d like any readers to find studies, if they exist, on number of children per woman by occupation.  I’d bet good money that lawyers are less fecund than elementary school teachers.

Interracial Loving

My first dating experience years ago with a black girl was a positive one.  She was really cute with a penchant for wearing stiletto heels and a habit of flaky behavior that I found endearing.  I remember the reactions we got walking down the street together holding hands.  Most people let their glances linger a fraction of a second longer than they otherwise would have.  In hindsight, I understood why this might’ve created some curiosity in people; a white man with a black woman is one of the rarer combos.  Onlookers naturally want to figure out what’s bringing us two together, so they examine us for clues, maybe like matching shoes or to see if I was acting black or she was acting white. I don’t give these things too much thought when I’m out with a girl of another race because I like to throw all my mental energy into enjoying the woman rather than overanalyzing the societal implications of our pairing.

But while we were dating some things did catch my attention.  The black guys we passed on the sidewalk stared at us longer than other people did and made Hmm mm damn sounds which I can only describe as a mixture of disapproval and respect. The black women we walked by, on the other hand, had a much stronger reaction.  Curious and aroused, they eye loved me like I was the filet mignon of manmeat.  I think I could have given every one of them an open invitation to join me and my date later in the evening for a night of 50 on 1 group sex that would have qualified for the Gold Edition Penthouse Forum. I recall the sex pretty vividly because she was exotic new territory for me.  I’ll admit I was intimidated when we started banging because I figured most of her experience was with black guys and their huge schlongs.  She climbed on top and a wave of relief swept over me when I hit her cervical wall.  I was big enough for her.

This next part I’m about to describe is a little racy, so those with small children may want to cover their kids’ eyes with their hands. After a while we barebacked raw dogged it (thanks, roosh) and the money shots were incredibly stimulating for me.  I loved how aesthetically pleasing was the contrast between the white jizz and the black skin.  Like modern art, the geometric arrangement and bold ejaculatory strokes set against the dark canvas of her smooth skin prompted me to admire my handiwork like I was pausing in front of a particularly abstruse painting in a museum to contemplate its majesty.  Plus, it made finding the mess easier for cleanup. We drifted apart quickly, but it was the outlook difference — or maybe my poor bump and grinding dancefloor skills — not the race difference, that was primarily responsible.  Though in thinking about it, I wonder if we had stayed together the racial differences wouldn’t’ve intruded at some point.  We didn’t date long enough for any “race issues” to potentially become a factor.  Nevertheless, I have fond memories.  Actually, I have fond memories from almost every girl I’ve let into my life. Except the lawyers.  *shudder*

Sex Machine

I strongly suspect there is a correlation between a woman’s body type and her preferred method of lovemaking.

Narrow hips + muscular upper body + high and tight ass + abs + dark forearm hair = Fucks like a man.

built to be on top with a riding crop

Curvy hips + baby fat + wide and plump ass + delicate upper body + small belly pouch = Makes love.

oxytocin factory

The farther a woman is from the ideal feminine, the more likely she will be to fuck like a sex machine, all pistons and friction.  She will be the type of girl who is not as emotionally hollowed by bed-hopping.

The closer a woman gets to the superfeminine in body shape, facial features, and temperament, the more submissive and tender will be her lovemaking.  For her, the culmination of the act is not in orgasm but in the bonding and the joy of knowing she is pleasing her lover.  Expect her legs to wrap around you during sex in a subconscious display of possession. 

Signs Of Sluttiness

There are a few red flags that tip me off about a girl’s sexual history.  I’m a big fan of loose girls as they make my job easier, but there’s no doubt a girl who has spread for you, your friends, your father, mr. ed loses some luster in my eyes.

If I take a girl back to her place for the first time and her roommates act like my presence is no big deal, I lower my opinion of her.  I’m a guy these roommates have never met before, there to engage in explicit acts of defilement, and they’re coming up to me shaking my hand all smiles and telling me to make myself comfortable and would I like anything to drink?  This is how that gets processed in my brain:

Just another guy that XXX has brought back with her.  We’re so accustomed to this by now the shock and awe has worn off.  In fact, maybe I should tell him the house rules about disposing of used condoms.

Here’s a hint, ladies.  When I go back to your place and you have roommates, I want your roomies scurrying like rats looking for a dark place to hide.  I do not want it to be the View with special male guest.  Unless your roommates are cute females open to group sex, nothing kills the passion faster than a nonchalant hippie commune vibe.

***

I appreciate a girl who asks if I have a condom.  But when I don’t and she reaches into her nightstand to get one I don’t want to see six different varieties (especially Trojan Magnum) in half-empty econoboxes tumble out.  Again, this is what I’m thinking:

So you work as a condom quality control tester.  After much trial and error with repeated penetrations from an assortment of penis shapes and sizes you have zeroed in on your favorite brand.

“Happen” to have one lying around.  Ignorance is bliss.

***

Spontaneous dirty talk is hot.  Sex talk that sounds like either you watch a lot of porn and are trying to mimic a pornstar (which is kinda pathetic) or it was rehearsed over and over again with many different guys until you got it just right is not hot.  I don’t want our intimacy to sound scripted.

Yeah, right there, fuck me right there.  yeah you like it there don’t you?  Oh yeah, a little harder.  Harder.  HARDER!  you want some of this?  you like my tight pussy?  stick it in me deep.  all the way in.  fuck me fuck me fuck me oh yeah i’m a bad girl aren’t i? you like a bad girl dontcha?  oh yeah your cock is soo big it feels soo good a little more like that just like that.  you love jamming it into my hot wet tight pussy…

Sometimes silence is golden.  A soft moan goes a long way.

Best Costume Ever

Related: Worst Costume Ever.

Marriage Does A Body Bad

Anyone who has heard the complaints of married men about their wives’ letting it all go to pot after the first bite of the wedding cake would not be surprised by this study.  As if there wasn’t already enough to argue against the raw deal for men that is modern marriage, we now have slovenly fatness to toss into the mix.

•Women in their teens and early 20s who continued to date but didn’t cohabitate gained an average of 15 pounds over five years; their male counterparts added about 24 pounds.

•Newly married women in that age group packed on 24 pounds in five years; newly married men gained 30 pounds.

That degree of gain wasn’t seen in couples who were living together but not married. Women gained 3 pounds more than their single peers — 18 pounds — and men gained 24 pounds.

Single people stay the thinnest, followed closely by cohabiting couples, and bringing up the (very large) rear are married couples.  Since weight gain on men is not as deleterious to their romantic prospects nor as deal-breaking for the women who love them, the real extent of how structurally anti-pleasure marriage is reveals itself in the pounds packed on by the wives.  A wife who stuffs her cakehole and bloats up by 24 pounds in the first five years of marriage is basically saying she doesn’t give a flying fuck about her husband’s desires.  So she isn’t just a lardass she’s inconsiderate.  Inner ugly marches lockstep with outer ugly.

“When people are dating, there may be more incentive to be thin,” Gordon-Larsen says.

The sexual market uber alles.  What married couples don’t seem to grasp is that the rules have changed.  Marriage is no longer a sanctuary from the unforgiving judgement of human mate preference.  No fault divorce and a complete collapse of the old social prohibitions have ensured that.

Single young adults tend to be the most active, watch the least amount of TV and are the least likely to be obese, says Natalie The, a researcher at the University of North Carolina.

What does marriage have going for it anymore?

She says many factors probably contribute to couples’ weight, including having children, post-pregnancy pounds, having less time to exercise and eating out more or cooking bigger meals.

Or losing the incentive to keep yourself attractive to the opposite sex.  No doubt many of these women married losers who aren’t flight risks, so why bother?

The 50% divorce rate is easy to understand once you know the cycle of life:

Man marries woman ——> woman’s goal is achieved (snag monogamous provider) while man’s goal (spread the seed) is thwarted ——> woman no longer feels need to be attractive to man ——> she gets fat ——> man loses interest in fucking her ——> woman becomes insecure over this and eats even more ——> she gets fatter ——> man drops all pretense of pleasing his fat wife and sits around belching, farting, drinking beer, watching sports, and forgetting anniversaries ——> woman resents man for this ——> woman shovels massive quantities of food down her gullet for comfort and pleasure ——> woman is now unrecognizable manatee ——> man escapes to nightly poker games with his buddies and quick jerks to porn ——> woman files for divorce ——> man loses half his money ——> woman uses this unearned windfall to hire personal trainer ——> woman loses weight remembering what it takes to please a man.

I have a question for all those fatass wives out there.
Tell me, when the mirror mocks you and your husband finds the sight of you repulsive and your marriage crumbles around you in a deluge of bitter bitter tears, ask yourself…
was the food worth it?