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?”

When food has replaced sex in your relationship, it’s pretty much over. If you’re a month or so into a relationship and you both find yourself face-planting bowls of pasta on a Friday night instead of giving yourselves reason to clean your sheets on Saturday morning, something is not right. Favorite foods are not a substitute for favorite sexual positions.

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.

I just can’t emotionally or physically connect with a woman unless there is some kind of terrible music playing.

When it comes to love and romance, timing is everything. There is so little choice when it comes to the fickle demands of your heart. And it’s the same with the music that serves as the soundtrack of your life. The songs you fall in love with pick you, not the other way around. There’s a reason the mythical symbol of love is a creepy flying baby who capriciously shoots arrows at random people, coupling them up. He is a stupid, bitter man-baby eternally blighted with an infants diddle.

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?

Finally. I thought I’d answer one of the big questions I’ve been asked over and over again, the question you ladies are dying to know the answer to. Are you ready?

We want anal sex because if we ask you if we can, and you say yes, even begrudgingly, then that is awesome. I don’t even know if the majority of guys even like anal sex, but that you’d say “yes” to such a dirty, unladylike request is what makes it oh-so-worthwhile.

The Hobopocalyse continues unabated: the stock market is at its lowest in twelve years, unemployment is at its highest in decades, and nobody knows how bad it’s going to get. But the good news is, I didn’t have to pitchfork-fight mole people for canned food today. Your 401K might be tanking, but canned food will always be valuable. And so will the shoulders of those you love and who love you back, even if, at this moment, some shoulders have to bear a greater weight than others.

According to a recent article in Newsweek, you can expect unemployed men, recent victims of the Great Recession of this still very new century, to revert to their lowest common gender stereotype. That means boorish frat boys decorating their fortresses of solitude with posters of bikini-clad hotties and crushing beer cans against their thick, Neanderthal skulls. And, for certain, a lot of men are being laid off. Since the economy began to crater in late-2007, four-fifths of the nearly four million people who have lost their jobs have been dudes.

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 whom you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should take account 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 which one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity.

A sensitive guy’s emotional availability is decorative, a means by which to exploit a woman’s weakness for men who are not total beer-powered, boxer shorts wearing Guitar Heroes with mommy issues and 18 gigabytes of porn hidden in a computer file named “Unicorns.”  This sort of dude displays his sensitivity with emo mixtapes, passionate rants on fluffy political issues like being pro-bunny rabbit or anti-death from shrapnel, and professions of understanding the subtle intricacies of the female heart.