Dennis Kucinich: Alpha Male

Guys see a picture like this and think to themselves “wow, if he can land a babe, there’s hope for any guy.”  Clearly, Dennis Kucinich has landed an alpha babe.  And not just a tabloid exploiting fame seeking fly-by-night whore.  These two lovebirds are married.  It is clear from her body language and how she speaks of him that she truly loves him.  How is this possible?  Examining the basic facts, we see a large disparity in their relative sexual attractiveness.

1. he is much shorter than her
2. he is goofy looking; she is a beautiful, lithe, redheaded bombshell
3. he is a lot older than her (31 year age difference.  she’s 29, he’s 60)
4. she is feminine.  he is… feminine
5. he has unicorn and rainbow politics

So how did he do it?

We get a hint of that in a couple of quotes from his wife, Elizabeth:

People who see us together understand – they see our connection. And it’s not like I’m some ditsy young thing and he’s an old fogey. He has the wisdom of an ancient and the energy of youth. Dennis says to me, ‘I’ve never seen myself as time-bound. When you make a connection on a soul level, age is not important.’

So Dennis has managed to neutralize the age objection by acting (and looking) more youthful.  This does not surprise me. Younger women appreciate a youthful outlook on life. Yes, acting young brings with it the risk of seeming immature, especially to older women looking specifically for an older man, but the risks are outweighed by the benefit of appealing to a much broader base of young women.

Another thing that comes through in her quote is the connection they share.  Connection, or mutual understanding, is one of the least understood (especially by men) and yet most important factors in what keeps a relationship strong.  Elizabeth was probably intrigued by Dennis at first because of his position of power as a US congressman, but his hippy dippy personality perfectly in tune with her whimsical “child of the soil” bohemian style sealed the deal.  They are on the same wavelength.

Here’s another quote:

As for having a family – Elizabeth says she would like children some day – Dennis says, ‘There’s no problem there.’

From this we can conclude that Dennis is confident in his ability to get hard and inseminate her with his flower power seed, despite his advanced age.  Perhaps his vegan diet keeps his arteries clear and his member functioning.  More likely, it is his incredibly hot wife 29 years his junior that helps him spring to action like a horny high schooler.  Young beautiful women are like souped-up turbo-charged Viagra/yohimbe/coke cocktails.  The majority of middle-aged men using Viagra are looking at the prospect of sex with haggard dumpy wives, so no wonder they need pharmaceutical assistance.

Connection, youthful vitality, and a high status career.  Those are the things that won Dennis his perfect 10, and they were appealing enough for Elizabeth to overlook his numerous shortcomings.  Often, when a woman is in love, she will grow to be blind to those negative traits in her man that might’ve otherwise turned her off when they first met.  This is a great example of how differently attraction works for men and women.  The mirror image of this situation hardly ever happens.  No matter how deep the connection or how youthful the outlook, vanishingly few men will want a relationship with a much older, unattractive woman.  They may want to be her friend, but they won’t want to fuck her.

The alpha male is not always obvious to the naked eye.  How many times have you walked down the street and said to yourself “what the hell is that guy doing with HER?!”  Or all those losers you know who’ve hooked up with women way out of their league.  What’s going on is that alphaness is not always a baseball bat to the head.  Sometimes it is a subtle thing, imperceptible to outsiders, a way he walks and moves or how he handles himself in conversation.

Or maybe Dennis has a 12″ cock.

Toilet Week Flushes On

You know how we guys are – when we get an idea in our heads we focus on it to the exclusion of all other thoughts, clinging like barnacles.  Girls don’t understand this tendency because they live in a world where conversations flit around from topic to topic like butterflies in a field of daisies.

So in keeping with the present obsession, here’s news that vindicates domesticated indentured servants married or cohabiting men everywhere:  it is actually more efficient to keep the toilet seat up.

In this paper, we show conclusively that the social norm of leaving the toilet seat down after use decreases welfare and by doing that we hope to convince the reader that social norms are not always welfare enhancing. Hence, there is a case for scientifically examining social norms and educating the masses about the fallacy of following social norms blindly.

What this paper is basically saying is that a cost-minimizing analysis of total number of toilet seat raisings and lowerings favors the man’s point of view since he uses the seat in both the down and up positions (#2 and #1) while the woman uses it only in the down position (unless she’s kinky).  But of course the norm is what it is because the toilet seat issue, like so many other ridiculously petty issues magnified to the point of craziness by women, is really a litmus test of a man’s love for her.  A woman needs constant reassurance that her man cares for her and the simple act of asking if he cares just won’t do — he has to show it even if it means incurring a time and effort cost as shown in the study above.  And my time is valuable.  If I can save 1.2 seconds not lowering the toilet seat that is an extra 1.2 seconds I have to dedicate to more productive enterprises.

Waving this paper in the face of his nagging woman will get a man nowhere.  Logic is not how to appeal to the fairer sex.  I suggest framing the debate this way:

“Baby, I know you love me, but it would be amazing if we could… {pause. gaze longingly at her}… imagine a time six months from now…. looking back on this moment…. {stroke her cheek}… as the beginning of our future together… when we reached incredible new heights of love and passion… by sharing… one for the other… the ups and downs of our beautiful toilet seat… {caress her neck}… to bring total hapPENIS to our lives… it’s like feeling like we’re on a roller coaster at the top of the hill… waiting to go over… feeling that anticipation that starts in your toes and travels your whole body through your arms and just goes… all through you… {trace your finger down her chest}… and down… here… and here… till you go over and the rush of excitement radiates out of you like a cord… growing stronger and stronger… connecting to me…. connecting us…. can you just feel that, right there?”

If she’s not blowing you with tongue action that feels like an epileptic serpent and simultaneously lowering the toilet seat before you even finish the last words, then trade her in for a chick who’s blood doesn’t run with liquid nitrogen.

It finally happened

After a lifetime of enjoying the spacious accommodations of the handicapped stall, an actual handicapped man entered the restroom while I was in there using it. 

His walker clicked on the tiled floor as he approached huffing and grunting the whole way.  He stopped in front of my stall, the feet of his walker in full view under the door jamb, and pushed impotently on the locked door.  A loud snort followed and he shambled into the adjacent, normal-sized stall.  For what seemed like an eternity he negotiated the tight space, stumbling and banging into the walls, grabbing onto the tp dispenser for support.  Twice, his walker tipped over when he tried to lean it against the stall.

Now I am not a guy who languishes in guilt.  Cheating, lying, stealing, breaking hearts… it’s all part of the wonderful fabric of life.  Like Donald Trump said about his divorces: “The guilt last for five minutes, then you get over it.”  But this made me feel bad, real bad.  I responded as only an honorable gentleman would — I hightailed it out of there before he could see my face.

She Eats Her Peas One at a Time

Women don’t have to be the only ones to enjoy the fine art of pigeonholing the opposite sex based on superficial attributes like his choice in cologne, the color of the buttons on his striped shirt, or whether his fly is undone.  Now men, too, can peer into the soul of prospective mates using the flimsiest criteria.  At least some of the idiosyncrasies I look for have the imprimatur of science behind them.

Is her index finger longer than her ring finger?

If so, she’s a girly girl.  Normal in most respects.  I won’t expect surprises from her.  If, otoh, her ring finger is longer she will probably be more assertive, less coy, hornier, more logical, and slower to fall in love.  She will have likely played a team sport at some point in her life.  She may dress like a tomboy.  She’ll employ an array of head games, but with an emphasis on the aggressive part of passive-aggressive.  Odds are she plays guitar, that most manly of instruments (long ring fingers make fretting easier).

Does she have lots of dark forearm hair?

Girls with this have more circulating testosterone.  They will be more likely to sleep with you by date 3.  Although forearm hair on a girl is unattractive, rejoice when you see it, because it means the moment of sexual congress is nigh.

Is her heart line broken?

Read her palm.  It’s an integral part of any man’s pickup routine.  Even the most intelligent and educated girl will suspend her disbelief when the subject turns to the paranormal.  Does she have a lot of hatch marks on her heart line?  Hatches, or interruptions, in the heart line mean you are one lover amongst many.  Don kevlar condoms.

Which finger does she accessorize with ring(s)?

Excluding wedding bands and dowries in the shape of diamond engagement rings, the ancient Greeks had a system of associating each finger with a god.  The finger she puts her ring on represents the god to whom she pays homage.  You’ll see a lot of DC women wearing their rings on their index fingers, the finger of Zeus, symbolizing leadership, control, and power.  Expect a woman with an index finger ring to enjoy sex on top, demonstrating her subjugation of you, a mere mortal.  She may even choke you a little… watch for icepicks.  A ring on her middle finger, representing Dionysus, means she’s a jump-up-on-the-bar, lookatme chick.

Does she have a large trashy tattoo anywhere near an erogenous zone?

Slut.

Does she sport one small tattoo not of a butterfly or Chinese symbol?

She’s a good girl with a healthy libido yearning for some harmless excitement.  Don’t make the mistake of assuming she’s a slut.  She’s just waiting for you to think that.  Her benign tattoo smokes out the judgemental pricks (narrator excluded).

Does she carry a small purse?

She’s practical!  She’s down to earth!  She has the right values!  The small purse says so many positive things about a woman — it’s only big enough to hold the essentials, like cell, lipstick, gum; it’s easy to carry so she’ll focus more on your conversation than on how best to maneuver a monster purse into a comfortable yet showy position; and it doesn’t insist upon itself that the world recognize her fashion savvy.  Introduce her to Mom.

Does she carry a humongous designer handbag?

Opposite of above.  Her god is materialism, her goal is status, her groin is gonorrific.  Feel free to crush her heart as callously as possible.  It’s dominate or be dominated when you tangle with a giant-purse-carrying wench.

Is she a redhead?

Naughty nympho.  Sex with her will be amazing.  Sign her waiver absolving her of any culpability for damages incurred as a result of the future depraved acts she will put you through.  Think I’m glibly stereotyping redheads?  Check this out:

From the 19th century Cesare Lombroso reports the hair color frequencies of whorish Women Offenders Against Chastity:

                     Criminal    Normal

Fair-haired           26%      12%
Dark-haired          26%      20%
Red-haired            48%      0%
Chestnut haired    41%      68%

Stereotypes don’t materialize out of thin air, you know.  Once your sultry redhead has corrupted your tender heart, pop the question:

“Did you steal my wallet?” 

Is she a blonde?

She might be dumb…

Of the 50 subjects with learning disabilities, 10 (20%) were blond. In contrast, 121 of 1067 subjects without learning disabilities were blond (11%)… subjects with learning disabilities were nearly twice as likely to be blond compared with non-LD subjects…. These results raise the possibility that melanin may be involved both in the development of motor dominance and independently in the devilment of neural systems which, when maldeveloped, result in learning disabilities. (Schachter, Ransel & Geschwind (1987) Associations of Handedness with hair color and learning disabilities Neuropsychologia 25: pp. 275)

…but more likely she’s just got a big bloated head from all the guys slobbering over her.  Show her off to your friends while satisfying your cravings for hot, wet, sheet-twisting boom boom with the ponytailed brunette you met at a crafts fair.

The Limits of Game

Game is now packaged, marketed, and taught to tens of thousands of men in the US.  At the rate the major businesses are growing and the books are selling, it’s possible that 10 million or more American men will have some knowledge of the fundamentals of game within a few years.  This is a not-insignificant number.  A percentage of those men will put forth the effort and apply what they’ve learned to their dating lives.  When a critical love-em-and-leave-em juncture is reached, I believe the country will go through another social revolution similar to the great upheaval of the 1960s.  What lies beyond is anyone’s guess, though I have my personal theories.

The art of seduction is not a new discovery, but it’s transformation into a science that can be executed in the field to produce relatively reliable results is new.  If Voltaire were alive today he would recognize a familiar scene of thousands of men talking away their ugly faces to bed their queens of france, but what would strike him as novel is the calculated efficiency and cooperative effort with which these 21st century voltaires, tools of science in hand, eviscerate and demystify the age-old quest of winning a woman’s heart and spreading her legs.  I imagine he would be saddened that the beauty and grandeur of the chase had been stripped to its bones and displayed textbook-like for the edification of legions of aspiring seducers.

The rise of the era of Game is not hard to explain.  Particular social conditions in conjunction with fresh knowledge and rapid information transfer practically guaranteed a new world order of more cads, less dads. Ironically, feminism helped midwife this beast.  The free love anti-trust breakup of women’s monopoly over sex and their increased financial independence dissolved the primary pillars of marriage.  The wheels were set in motion, yet the Sexual Revolution 2.0 didn’t kick into high gear until the mid 1990s when some very astute and horny guys found in the teachings of darwinistic evolutionary psychology the blueprint for getting what they wanted from women.

A shortcut had been discovered.  Now, instead of toiling for years as a cog in the machine, giving til it hurt, to win the heart of a marriageable woman in a socially-approved manner, men were, in effect, mimicing the traditional alpha male through a process of data compression.  The confident body language and cocky humor of the CEO or BigLaw sleazebag could be had by the common man for pennies on the dollar.

Most men scoff at this.  It takes many demonstrations by pioneers before the average guy will lose his long-held beliefs about how the world works.  Even those guys who know about game and have immersed themselves in it like a religious follower at a tent revival find it difficult to change their old ways.  For now, the status quo continues to be the default assumption.  Marriage, rigged as it is against men in its current configuration, is still the norm people aspire to.  And that is where game (to date) has fallen short; it is a great tool for pickup but needs refining for application in longterm relationships.

A lot of pie in the sky acolytes of game miss the bigger picture.  There are some very immutable laws of human nature that the best game in the world won’t circumvent.  Age is one of them.  A 90 year old man will not score 20 year old coeds on the strength of game alone.  He’ll need compensating factors, in massive quantities.  Fame and vast wealth are proven sexual value enhancers.  Without game, a man would need a steadily increasing pot of money or accumulating social status to satisfy his urge to screw young women.  With game, he can afford to slack off a certain amount on the traditional attractiveness measures.  In a sense, game is like an extra 5 inches in height or $100K in salary — it gives a man a big leg up in the mating wars.

By age 50, the decrepitude of mitochondrial degeneration will really begin to hinder a man’s ability to score.  Women under 30 will not take his flirting seriously any longer.  At this time, the amount of power (in the form of money) he’ll need to continue attracting younger women will rise exponentially.  In graph form, it would look like this:

For women, their version of game, wealth, social status, and power over men are dependent on one necessary variable: her beauty.  Once that goes, (and it usually goes faster for them than it does for men), they are shit out of luck.  But for the brief window of time they have their beauty, they hold in their hands the power of the gods.

Since women cannot do much about their looks other than plastic surgery and, marginally, makeup, they have to be more cognizant than men of their time left to secure for themselves the best deal on the sexual market.  Time is no friend to anyone, but to women it is especially cruel.  When I see mother-daughter duos shopping at the mall I’m always stunned they are related.  There isn’t a better, or sadder, advertisement for trading up.

Although a woman’s looks primarily define her sexual marketability, feminine personality and a willingness to experiment sexually count as well, but those factors only work synergistically with youth and beauty.  Women who’ve hit the wall can wear dresses every day, learn the art of coquettish flattery, and carry a suitcase full of perverted sex toys, but it will be in vain.  Men will look past her at the younger versions of herself.  Older women (between 30 and 45) who still have a few years of serviceability left in them can compete against the younger competition by putting out right away.  Nevertheless, this is a temporary fix.  Any man worth having will get his rocks off with the cougar and save his commitment for the kitten.  A graphical representation of the market constraints women operate within would look like this:

While game is the next step in the evolution of relations between men and women, it is not an alien technology with diplomatic immunity from human nature that will yield results for everyone under every circumstance.  Street bums are not suddenly going to start banging quality pussy, though they may improve their meet to lay ratio with soup kitchen volunteers.  For the man who truly wants the life that most men dream about, a multi-front attack improving his finances, physical well-being, and game, with one eye on the ticking clock, is the only way to go.

Designer Vaginas

So it seems that aging women, all too aware of the loss of sexual power accompanying their fading youth and unable to accept their inevitable decline, are turning the surgeon’s scalpel to their private parts.  At the risk of losing sensitivity they are chopping away at the low-hanging hammocks their vulvas have become.

Known as elective genitoplasty, the surgery usually entails shortening or changing the shape of the outer lips, or labia, but may also include reduction in the hood of skin covering the clitoris or shortening the vagina itself.

Just like other types of plastic surgery, they’ll probably go too far until the vagina looks like a mannequin cat.

Men, however, do not usually want the size of their genitals reduced for such reasons.

Scientists are baffled.

Patients who sought genitoplasty “uniformly” wanted their vulvas to be flat and with no protrusion, similar to the prepubescent look of girls in Western fashion ads, they found.

One piece of advice, ladies.  Don’t fuck with the camel toe.  (Snark alert: “Prepubescent” is bittercode for “youthful”.)

Wizard sleeve enthusiasts are up in arms:

It is the negative meaning that makes it into a problem — meanings that can give rise to physical, emotional and behavioural reactions, such as discomfort, self-disgust, perhaps avoidance of some activities and a desire for a surgical fix.

Yes, right, negative meaning.  That’s the ticket.  Maybe older women and the betas who go down on them just think adolescently smooth, tight vulvas look prettier than wrinkled, floppy bologna slices?  Everything else on a young woman looks better than the older version of herself, so why would vaginas be exempt from this natural law?  Gravity and cell senescence don’t give the genitalia a pass.  These modern day Puritans need to stop badgering people for their decisions to delay the horrors of aging as long as possible with the tools of science.

I figure most of the nip/tucking is being done to older vaginas that have suffered one too many blows — childbirth, piercings, repeated slammings by large cocks, vibrator overuse — and now flap like bedsheets hung to dry in the spring breeze.  Since I stopped dating women less than 5 years younger than me once I reached my late 20s, I can only go by the mature porn I watch religiously to satisfy my secret fetish for things that gross me out to the point of seizure.  And old cooze is not a pretty sight.  Obese women with grossly distended vulva may be getting their vaginas refashioned, but if that’s the case, if I were their plastic surgeon I would tell them to concentrate on other parts of the body first, like the parts that are actually seen by people.

Young women with genetically oversized labia might be availing themselves of this procedure as well, but their numbers must be few in comparison to the older patients.  There is a lot of variance in the shape and size of the young pussy, but it’s the kind of variance that is still pleasing to the eye.  I feel bad for the girl who is way outside the norm in labial aesthetics for her age group.  It’s like having what could’ve been a sexy mole right *on* the lip instead of slightly above it.

The Bachelor Party

Contrary to popular chick belief, bachelor parties are lousy last-hurrah pickup opportunities.  Nothing screams “ain’t getting laid tonight” louder than a roomful of bob evans dropping $20s on lapdances from strippers who get paid to flirt and make a guy think he’s Casanova for the time it takes him to slip a buck in her garter.  Trust me, bachelorettes, your guy has got no shot.  You should send a thank you card to all those working strippers who reminded your future husband how hard-up he’d be without your steady supply of pussy.  That’s what marriage is — a safety school, a plan B, for guys who wouldn’t know what to do with the new leads.

So when I’m at bachelor parties I know the best way to make the night worthwhile is to come with two goals in mind.  Goal one is for my buddies.  We pound shots, we eat a zoo’s worth of meat at Churrascaria, we stumble into Scores and rate the strippers until we find the perfect half-Thai, half-Norwegian beauty for the man of honor and give her a couple hundred to grind her ass into him for 3 minutes.  When they’re tapped out, they plead with some strippers to join us, after their shifts, at the next stop, a trendy upper east side lounge.  “Sure, handsome, sounds fun, but how ’bout another private dance?”

Goal two is to wipe the stink of lameness off me after having spent good money for the privilege of looking at, but not touching, naked girls.  I’m glad my buddies will have fond memories of empty wallets and killer hangovers, but I demand more of myself.  A bachelor party to me is another night out to pickup women and wing for my single friends.  Unfortunately for them and for the women who secretly want to be seduced, they have zero game.  Drunken assertiveness is not a winning formula.

We arrived at the bar/lounge where one guy’s brother bartends, and revved up the drinking once again.  I paced myself because I need my wits to run proper game.  They were disappointed the strippers didn’t show up.  The ratio was not good, so when a cute, late 20s woman walked in at 1AM and sat at the bar alone it was like tossing chum to circling sharks.  A phalanx of my friends seven deep approached this girl and opened her in unison.  Now that’s attractive.  She didn’t seem to mind, though, and I watched from a comfortable vantage point as the scene escalated into an embarrassing spectacle of seven guys sitting in a semi-circle all facing one girl peppering her with questions and meandering slice-of-life stories.  Every time she was about to speak, the whole posse leaned in like she was EF Hutton.  It was as if they took everything a guy should know about basic game and did the opposite.  One quick glance at her eyes told the tale — there wasn’t a hint of attraction.  It was the indulgent look of a dog lover watching puppies climb her leg.  This went on for almost an hour.  Occasionally, one of the guys would peel off and walk back to me with a progress report.

“hey man, check this out, I think I can get this chick’s number.”
“yo, dude, waddaya think?  she’s giving me the signals, eh!”

More useless chitchat.  By now, the guys were throwing everything at her.  There were bottles of beer and full shots all over the bar behind her; they were buying her drinks faster than she could drink them.

“I’m in, man.  don’t tell my girlfriend! this is in the vault, right? right?!?”
“she’s hot. I’m gonna get her alone and work my magic.”
“I know this is XXXXX’s night, but this chick is into me! He won’t mind if I take off with her.”

Once in a while, one of the married guys in our crew would join the fray and throw down with his rusty wingman skills.  Let me tell you, there is no worse wingman in the world than a married guy.  They mosey in, totally at ease because, you see, they’re spoken for and don’t feel any pressure to impress girls anymore, and completely monopolize the conversation with boring Adventures from Married Life.  They are like Venom’s black suit, leeching into every conversational crevice and taking hold, bonding with their hostage over recipe-swapping stories, until all sex appeal is drained out of everyone in a ten block radius.  And the best part is they think they are helping their buddies get laid!

The besieged girl finally had had enough and began closing off her body language.  Crossed legs to the side, arms folded, eyes wandering around the bar.  The guys got the hint and slowly, one by one, aborted the mission.  I think they had violated, in the course of an hour, every single rule of the Game.  It was quite an achievement.  On their way back, they bitched to me about her attitude and wished me good luck in taking a crack at her.  My attention turned to the girl, who was now sitting alone again.  I suspected she was either just out of a bad relationship or a foreigner new to the city.  How else to explain her infinite patience and good natured smiling during this debacle?  I waited 15 minutes to give her a breather before moving into position next to her at the bar.

“Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Break seven guys’ hearts at once.”
“Oh really, is that what you think I did?”
[accent.  she’s foreign.  one suspicion confirmed.]
“It takes a cold person to pull that off.  I almost didn’t want to talk to you because you’re so mean.”
“Well, you don’t have to, one of those guys still wants to talk with me.”
[motioning to the other side of the room] “He’s pissed at your meanness.  I’ll do my best to fill in and prove to him that you’re really a nice girl on the inside.”

We talked for an hour, then moved to another room and sat down on a couch.  My other suspicions were confirmed when she told me she’d only been in New York 6 months and had recently broke it off with her boyfriend.  She was practically on her own with few friends, nervous about the future, and needing someone to confide in.  More than once in our conversation she cried a little.  Her Finnish homeland was far away.  My hapless buddies had primed her to soak up even minimal game like a sponge.  Everything was in place.  It was the perfect pickup storm.  Ironically, it’s situations like these when I back off on running my tightest game and prefer to connect in a very laissez-faire, casual fashion.  When a girl is not shit testing me or putting up hoops for me to jump through, when she’s genuinely vulnerable, I respond in kind.  But I never abandon the fundamentals — seven guys proved to me again what happens when female psychology is ignored in favor of being yourself.

So with a mix of game and sincere interest I learned more about this girl in a night than most husbands bother to know about their wives after years of marriage.  2 hours 45 minutes later we were in her bed.  It was the fastest non-inebriated, non-dancing meet to lay time I have ever recorded.  It helped that her place was across the street.

The next day, the guys gave me some shit about what had happened.  There weren’t any hard feelings, but there were complaints along the lines of “oh, man, I warmed her up for you” and “i do the dirty work and you come in to mop up”.  This illustrates one of those guy code issues that skirts a gray area.  No guy can claim dibs on a girl just because he talked to her or bought her a drink she didn’t want, but at the same time a good friend won’t move in on the girl or her girlfriends when his buddy’s failed pickup attempt is still fresh.  I empathize, so when something like this happens I wait until the guy(s) who opened the girl takes all the time he needs.  Usually, I simply leave them and go find a richer target environment.

Which leads me to guy code number two.  If a buddy doesn’t have game, he shouldn’t expect me to put my game on hold for him so that we can commiserate together Iron John-style over tear-stained beers.  If he doesn’t know that opening a girl with six swinging dicks in tow is an exercise in futility then I am not going to accommodate his bruised ego by letting golden opportunities slip by.  Bros before hos except at the close.

A month later I heard from the guy who was getting married that after he told his fiancee about my night he caught flak from her for associating with me as a friend.  The news put a smile on my face.  When engaged women think I’m a bad influence on their beloveds I know I’m doing something right.