Groucho Marx once famously quipped “I don’t care to belong to a club that would have me as a member.” I sort of feel the same way about online dating sites. There has got to be a better way to meet people, people. Sadly, mental telepathy does not work. Unless you know what I was just thinking, in which case, e-mail me.

I’ve recently begun… researching popular dating sites. Not because I need a date. Ho, no, no, no. I don’t need a date. I’m up to my man boobs in hot lady action. There’s an 85% chance of boobs forecast in my love life. I am the Mayor of Vagtown. No, this research is for you, for all of you. It’s a testament to my generosity of spirit I waded through these interweb love sewers in order to impart some sort of wisdom. Here’s the wisdom: dating sites blow.

If I read the phrase “You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince” on this site one more motherspelunking time, I’m going to spontaneously barf. You don’t really believe this, do you? Dudes don’t have an equivalent to this creaky, cliché trope. It’s not like you’ll ever hear one guy comfort another guy by saying “You’ve got to kiss a lot of whores before you find your Madonna. Or vice versa.” 

There are two types of women in the world: women who are totally comfortable with masturbation and those who are ashamed of the act. I realize there are more than two types of women in the world, so forgive my rhetorical cheat. It’s for a good cause.

I don’t know why some women are weird about pleasuring themselves. I am not, in fact, a woman. But to those who are embarrassed about it, please, think about rubbing one out for your boyfriend or husband tonight. He will love it. There are few spectacles as captivating as a woman getting herself off. It is pure sex on toast. Watching your girl squirm, growl, and hit the right buttons while you whisper dirty little secrets and improper commands is so hot, it makes my guts ache. It’s vulnerable, and intimate, and epically eye-crossing. 

Apparently, Brooke Shields lost her virginity at the positively spinsterly age of 22, and regrets not having gotten it over with earlier. When it comes to celebrity gossip, I’m on a blessed time delay. Normally, I’m too busy doing manly things like chopping down trees with my face, flamethrower-roasting suckling pigs, or seducing entire female soccer teams. But truly, this is momentous news, sorry I’m just getting around to it.

It should be of some solace to Brooke that there is no ideal way to lose one’s virginity. It is supposed to be awkward, because sex is awkward. Objectively speaking, it’s kind of funny. Clearly sex was invented by Morgan Freeman as a way to entertain bored angels. Think about it: sex is a lot of butt meat jiggling, legs in the air swaying back and forth like metronomes, and blush-worthy squishy noises. Shakespeare called sex “making the beast with two backs,” but it’s more like “making the squirming eight-limbed octopus that grunts.” The “O” in “O” face stands for “Oooh my gawd, is my grill turning itself inside out?”

Men should pay for the first date. It is our responsibility, nay, birthright. It’s what we do instead of having to wear heels or beautifying face spackle. Women should offer to at least cover the tip, because that is polite. The next date should be her treat. Every subsequent date should be split. This is also polite. It is 2009, after all, and things change. More men are strapped for cash, more women are flushed. It is an increasingly even playing field when it comes to gender norms. Simple, right? Now we can all move along…

Oscar Wilde quipped, “Every woman grows up to be her mother: it is her curse. No man does, and that is his.” Men should aspire to the best of their parental units. No dig against fathers. But my mother’s example has made me a better man.

I’m not a momma’s boy, I’m just a man who loves his momma. I try and call once a week. We’re not all up in each other’s businesses, but we’ve got each other’s backs. We are each other’s biggest fans, and we both prefer our beer in bottles.

I like to think I’ve broken Wilde’s curse and grown up to be like her. Maybe I get points for the attempt. Some things you should know up front about Mrs. DeVore: She is a badass, an artist, and a very beautiful lady. She taught me the very basics that a mother should teach her son: how to cook, how to sew, and how to be gentlemen. Most importantly, she taught me to make the most of who you are because you are all you’ve got.

I went on a date the other week with a pair of hot Swedish volleyball players with galactic hoots and bodies so taut that quarters bounce off bellies. These buxom hotties could easily have graced the pages of Brodawg Magazine, posing in the rain, wearing only leather belts. As they were putting on their heels to join me in the champagne jacuzzi, it occurred to me that these phantasmagorical sirens weren’t doing it for me. Then I woke up with both of my arms in my pant legs. Cursed margaritas, so tequila-y and delicious.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned writing these columns, it’s that you ladies have penis on the brain. Which is why I’m going to admit that my penis is so huge, so gargantuan, that when I get excited, I barely have enough skin with which to whistle. Seriously. It’s like three grapefruits in a gym sock. Trash bags are my preferred prophylactic. I ain’t bragging or nothin’.

Does size really matter? How do you know your vagina isn’t all floppy? I knew a dude once who described sleeping with a woman as “driving a hatchback through the Lincoln Tunnel.” I am convinced y’all make so much of a fuss about size as a passive-aggressive way to get back at dudes who you perceive as judging you solely by your boobs, waist, and butt. But when it comes to sex, good sex, bite-mark-on-the-shoulder sex, we are the sum of our physical, and emotional, parts. Otherwise, you’re not having sex. You’re just slapping bits.

Fine, I’ll level with you. After all, we’ve been through so much together. You’re like foreign exchange students to me. Not unlike sisters. But I wouldn’t feel gross if I “accidentally” walked in on you while you showered. TMI?

Chances are the reason he hasn’t called you back is because he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe he can’t talk to you. Maybe he’s fighting pirates, composing an opera, shampooing orphaned kittens.

If he hasn’t called you back, don’t hemorrhage. Don’t instant message your bestie to bitch and moan. I’ve observed many of you in the wild; bitching and moaning begats more bitching and moaning. A dude not calling you back will snowball into ridiculousness. The simplest, most reasonable answer is the right one. His phone could have been turned off, his grandmother could have died, he could have been hit by a truck and has amnesia. Simple, right?

Men don’t have “guilty pleasures.” We own, nay, celebrate what’s bad for us. Our obsessions are points of pride, not shame. You’ll never see a guy wolf down a small mountain of waffles with a side of pig and squeal, “OMG, I can’t beliiiiieeeeve I ate everything! Tee! Hee!”

We will shamelessly sit in a nest of pizza crusts playing video games for endless hours. Unabashed tears will crawl out of the corners of eyes when the hometown team chokes at the last minute (tears so manly, of course, that they leave little craters in linoleum.) Beer will be quaffed, their caloric potency mocked. These are the things that make life worth living. That, and never ever getting bored of sly peeping springtime legs stretching out from under brand-new short skirts.

It has recently come to my attention that there are ladies out there who think that their man drooling over pornography is tantamount to adultery. If you truly believe this, you should either dump him ASAP, with extreme prejudice, or accept that you’re going to have to live with his mistress. Dudes watch porn.

An objective, partially superficial analysis of women’s magazines like Glamopolitan has led me to form the following conclusions:

The point is made: You ladies have dated lots of losers. But have you ever considered that maybe, sometimes, totes gasp, you’re the loser yourself?

Here’s a question: Why was Chris Noth’s character in “Sex In the City” nicknamed “Mr. Big” when it’s clear it should have been “Mr. Old Man Fatty”?

Also, I want to know which came first: Carrie and the girls giving the men they were dating petty, offensive little nicknames or actual real world women assigning their men these kinds of faux clever monikers.

You ladies nickname us according to our jobs, our sexual proclivities, or some flaw in our character, as if the act of nicknaming is some preemptive, passive-aggressive revenge tactic. It should be noted that a nickname is the polar opposite of a pet name; essentially, one is accentuating the negative, the other the positive. For instance, I had a chick friend who dated a dude whom she nicknamed “Nasty Ass.” (We were BFFs, and she talked to me like I was vagina-enabled; little did she know I was gathering intelligence.) Anyway, she kept dating him, and wouldn’t you know, love unexpectedly spread, like Ebola. Eventually, her pet name for him was a loving “Stinky.” True story.

As I see it, there should be no discussion of a relationship, or exclusivity, within the first three months of dating. Those three months should be a drama and ultimatum-free zone. No jealousy or commitment. Just a period of savoring; the gritty, totally worth it hard work can come later. Save it, potentially, for the rest of your life.

If something works between two people, then there is no rush. That “click” will still be there in three months, and hopefully six, and a year, etc. And once you find that unlucky slob who will Eskimo kiss you when you’re sick, all you have to do in order to preserve your new found mutual attraction is to chill the f**k out, have faith, and not flinch. Let it happen.

I have never met a woman who thought she was bad in bed. I have known plenty of women who can rattle off an impromptu, critical dissertation on the carnal failings of most men. “He didn’t get me off.” “He treated my nipples like Xbox control sticks.” “He came before his pants were off.”

No, not all women are great in bed. Is the onus on dudes to break the bedsprings? I say no. It is both of our responsibilities to be the best lay possible. There are women who kick back Cleopatra-style and dare their men to please them. Women who use men like giant, hairy vibrators, and women who are so eager to please, it can be overwhelming.

1. I think I’m awesome, but seriously, why do you think I’m awesome?

2. I can speak dolphin. Which is how I help them.

3. I don’t have a driver’s license and I don’t know how to drive a car. But I know how to drive the ladies wild and I have a license to freak, freak you sweet and spicy, freak you like a jungle cat made out of lava.

4. I write poetry. Here’s a sample, “She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies/And all that’s best of dark and bright/Meets in her aspect and her eyes.” I just made that up, right now, on the spot.

5. Yes I can, did, will, etc.

Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about who loves you, but who you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should make a personal accounting of those people in your life who make you gleefully vomit little candy hearts. Being loved back isn’t nearly as important in life as boldly, recklessly, sincerely loving someone regardless of any returns on investment. Making love, not taking it, is the primary occupation of the human condition, our core programming, whether we realize it or accept it or not. All other activities and pursuits are secondary.

Instead, Valentine’s Day feels like emotional extortion. To many men, it’s an inconvenience to dread, a relationship hoop set aflame that one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity.

I think I might be a sexist. But since most of you are vagina-enabled, I’ll let you tell me. Many of you possess testicles, as well, and I’ll invite you to chime in, too. To those who have both: All are welcome here.

I’m not proud of the fact that I might be sexist, but it seems more honest to say so than declaring that I’m a feminist. Which I’m not. I’m having a tough enough time trying to figure out how to be a righteous dude. I suppose the best contribution I can make to the struggle for gender equality is to try and be a better man. I can’t allow myself to politicize my inner-struggles, to become, as Gandhi said, the change I want to see in the world. So, yeah, I’m not a feminist, and I might be a sexist. But better I be aware of that, than ignorant to the prejudices that make me oh-so human. And that’s the best I can do.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine came to me for advice, and I think the advice I gave him was pretty good advice, if I do say so myself. Because when it comes to love and relationships, those who can, do. Those who can’t give love and relationship advice.

My friend had just proposed to his girlfriend. The wedding promised to be epic, “Vegas-style” and planned with Pentagon-like precision. The sort of wedding where you wouldn’t be surprised if a trained monkey dressed like a butler exploded out of a 17-tier wedding cake, holding a smaller, 10-tier wedding cake, as fireworks exploded, and an ABBA cover band parachuted in next to the champagne glass pyramid, while howling “Take A Chance On Me.” No expense spared.

Go ahead and have sex on the first date if you want. If it feels good, do it. Ruin yourself. Get your rocks off. Surrender to chemistry, drink, irresponsibility. Indulge in the passion, throw caution to the wind, make a big sloppy mess of your love life. Your prince might not call you back if you rail him in the bathroom stall or after he slinks out of your apartment while you’re sleeping. If that happens, cry and wail!  Just know that reports of the fragility of the human heart are greatly exaggerated.