A buddy of mine recently told me that he and his girlfriend have an arrangement. The deal is this: They both have a list of five celebrities they are allowed to sleep with in the highly unlikely event that such an opportunity presents itself. Oh, but I’m wise to the she-brain. I had to nobly inform my friend that this was not a binding agreement. That it’s just a way that women humor men.
You women think you’re so-o-o-o clever. But are you really? Or is it that men are just real knuckleheads when it comes to believing what we want to be true? It’s not receding! She loves graphic novels. I can bang another woman and she’ll be fine with it. We want to trust you, especially when you give us tacit approval to stick it in another woman, even if she is out of our league. Out of our dimension, really. “It’s best not to fall for this trap,” I told him. “I’ve been there! Dudes 4 eva!” This conclusion ticked my brodawg off a little: It was a real agreement, and for that matter, he had the upper hand. In the right circumstance, he was fairly confident he could rail Megan Fox. That poor deluded bastard.
I would like to meet, just once, some dude who has succeeded in fulfilling this contract. Just one story of a dude sitting on his couch, watching UFC, eating a bowl of Golden Grahams, when his girlfriend or wife comes in and he announces, “Remember how Carmen Electra was on my list? Well … hit it!” This would be a great story to hear. But like most fairy tales, it has never, ever happened. And never will. I’m wise to you ladies – you invented the “five celebrities I can sleep with” diversion in order to manipulate us poor, helpless men. Not so clever now, huh?
This “game” is one of the silliest interrelationship rituals of recent times. I’ve engaged in this pillow discussion with a girlfriend convinced she could curb my caveman lusts by suggesting we name five celebrities we can bone. It’s a transparent, abstract bribe, really. I will remain faithful up until which point the absolute impossible happens. I chose to play along and negotiate with her in bed. How about, instead of five celebrities, it was five female politicians? Or female bull riders or PhDs in astrophysics? I was joking, of course, as my fidelity can’t be bought. It is given, freely. She, however, had been serious. We were both supposed to supply a list, for vetting purposes.
Was this her being devious? I mean,
I was pressured to name my five. I stammered, and accessed that section of my brain I’m sure brain scientists would refer to as “Things Gorillas Like.” Eating, scratching my ass. Beating my chest, scratching my ass. Scratching my ass, chasing girl gorillas.
I sputtered and blurted out a plastic pantheon of whomever I could remember gracing the cover of BRODAWG magazine: Joanna Krupa, Grace Park, Milla Jovovich, That Chick From That Movie, Boobella DeBubblebutt. A whatever list. I hadn’t thought about it. (I’m sorry, Zooey Deschanel, but our love is too pure for such trifles.) She then launched, with rehearsed precision, into her list of guys – boom! Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Andy Samberg, Ryan Gosling, John Krasinski, and Jason Mraz. [Hey, two of the five are on my list! Cool! Also, John misspelled all of these guys' names in his original copy. -- Editor] She rattled them off so quickly, she was breathless immediately after.
First of all, I stand absolutely no chance with any of the women I mentioned, but I noticed that her quirky crew of “aw shucks” brolings were … attainable. I mean, she was super cute and funny, and I know dudes — she could be at a club where one of these dudes goes, and it wasn’t inconceivable that it could happen. I couldn’t seduce any of my women with a white tux, a yacht, and a pet Bengal tiger. I picked unattainable, pre-fab goddesses designed to lobotomize men. That was my reflex, and your honor, I blame society. But she picked normal guys in the public spotlight that seemed down-to-earth. Suddenly, I was jealous. Who do those fancy tossers who wear makeup for a living think they are, trying to hit on my woman? DeVore don’t like that. I employed my patented One Handed Panty Removal Technique™, and put my mouth on her until she made sounds only bats can hear. So, see, I showed her.
Crap. Maybe women really are just cleverer.
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