Here’s a 110% true fact: the guy you’re dating has definitely imagined having a threesome with you and the waitress from last night, his hot co-worker, or your best friend. Totes disgust, amiriiiiight?

While you’re squirming over how grossoholic men are, telling yourself “My boyfriend would NEVER want to have a threesome between me and my best friend Megs,” allow me to inform you that women are far kinkier, nastier, and sexually adventuresome than the testicle enabled. More on THAT, later.

So long as love rides shotgun in your life, nothing can ever truly be that bad. It is the singular prize that trumps all others, the reward that sweetens every success. Truly, it is the hot fudge on the ice cream scoops of personal achievement. Now, excuse me while I puke a little in my mouth. Actually, I’m going to shotgun a cheap beer and play some Grand Theft Auto 4 to make amends for such an unforgivably cheeseball observation. More on love and rewards and, ZOMG, trust, after the jump…. Plus, a fable!

Recently, I rambled about The Big Switcheroo – men and women adopting each other’s worst gender behaviors. The diatribe was equal parts self-indulgence and genuine confusion. Are men really becoming needy, emotional leeches and women emotionally void predators?  I suppose no one said the collective lurch towards equality was going to be pretty. And I’d like to add that it seems no one is really having any fun. It’s never fun being someone who you’re not.

But enough Danny Downer.

Women are emotionally-vacant pigs and men are emotionally-unstable psychos.

Wait. That’s not right.

But it is in so many ways. Welcome to the new millennium, boys and girls, where gender equality means “let’s adopt the worst of each other’s stereotypes.” It’s a madcap race to the bottom rung of the sexual identity ladder. Wheee!

You’ve heard about the mood swings, cravings, mania, and general awfulness your wife will be “blessed” with throughout her nine-month journey to motherhood. Here are five things your parent-friends will never tell you about pregnancy, probably because they’d just assume forget about them altogether:

Miscarriage. It seems to be almost inevitable. We’re not sure of the statistics, but an unscientific survey we did of three friends showed that every woman in the world will have at least one miscarriage. As a guy, you’d think that your rub-some-dirt-on-it-and-get-back-in-the-game attitude that you learned from your high school football coach (who was banging one of your classmates by the way) would be helpful. It’s not. Let her sister/mom/friends console her because you suck at it. Meanwhile, you’ll have some extra time to create a new, winning game plan.

We love sex. You love sex. Well, that’s out of the way.

Seeing as we’re both in agreement over the importance of sex, the excitement of sex, the giggle-inducing, gasp-inspiring, slow-motion tsunami of gooseflesh-triggering awesomeness of sex, we can move on to why it is we can’t really talk about S-E-X.

Women think men are mysterious when it comes to knocking boots, or worse, single-minded and simplistic. We’re not. You’re mysterious, and that’s not playground rhetoric. The difference between what we want and what you want, our needs and yours, is the difference between banal home theater instruction manuals and more exotic hieroglyphics.

Honest Abe is a friend of ours who emails us his interesting observations about men, women, relationships, sex, and dating from time to time. And from time to time we will excerpt these thoughts in Mind Of Man. Hate it or love it, we’re sure it’ll really be that simple.

I had a conversation yesterday with a close friend the other day, as she was sharing with me her frustration with her boyfriend of 4 years, and his unwillingness to settle down (i.e. popping the question).  Here’s the truth, as I told her, about men.  Regardless of how great she is, if we’re not ready to settle down, we’re just not ready to settle down.  This is why you see two great people break up, and you wonder why that had to happen. Often, it’s because we’re just not ready. 

A girl walks into the wireless café that I frequent. She’s very pretty. I’ve seen her before, but never spoken to her. Today, the café’s pretty packed. The girl orders her drink. She looks around. Here is the big moment: Where will she sit? But what she’s clearly not factoring in to her decision, what I don’t think this girl realizes, is the fact she’s being monitored like a Russian agent walking through the Pentagon. Man, I think, this is so unfair. If she only knew …

If she only knew, there is a spy network of guys, regulars at this café, that have formed an unlikely bond based upon – what else? – the pretty girls that come into the café. I am, admittedly, part of this network. We are an organized and immature bunch. We watch the girls walk in. We discreetly glance at each other to make sure the others see, too. We wait for them to sit next to us. We talk to them. And when they leave, we talk about them. Not like a bunch of gossip girls, but like suspicious agents: We’ve got information to share and we are willing to share it, but only if you have some information to share, too, pal.

The good news is this: the first date was a success – the quirky, out of the way Thai place he picked was charming and he paid for the dinner discreetly. He didn’t inhale beer like a frat boy on a mission from God to get drizzzunk. His listened intently to your every word, and never, ever mentioned any of his exes. The hug goodbye wasn’t awkward, in fact, the both of you simultaneously lingered for a brief, awesome moment. On your way home, as you batted away the hearts and rainbows swirling around your head like little candy-coated moons, he texts you that he had a great time and he hopes to see you soon.

Indulge me as I imagine the single word racing through your she-noggin like a unicorn galloping through a lollipop forest. That word is “ZOMG.”

But the second date looms, ladies, and it’s your date to screw up.

Okay ladies, how many times has this happened to you? It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. You and your man have lunch plans with the parents. At a nice restaurant, too. One of those cloth napkin, jacket required, “why are you ordering a burger when the chef’s signature trout almondine is on the menu today”-kind of places. Yeah, it’s shaping to be a pretty good day.
Except he should have picked you up already. What gives?

As your prototypical sexually active straight man, you can imagine I’ve had my fair share of forays betwixt the sheets. And over the course of my escapades, I’ve learned that perfection isn’t always easy to achieve in the bedroom, especially when it comes to birth control. A broken condom here, a forgotten pill there – the next thing you know, you’re having nightmares about changing diapers and shopping for onesies. 

Of course, the more likely outcome of a birth control breakdown is an unintended pregnancy scare, not an unintended pregnancy. Still, the resulting situation can be rather unpleasant. For a guy, emotions range from apathy to pulse-pounding fear. For a girl, initial concern is followed by massive, crippling panic. Although the “morning-after” pill is 89 percent effective in preventing contraception, it has no proven effect on the fighting, resentment and bitterness that often arise from a surprise pregnancy scare.

However, through careful trial and lots of error, I have stumbled upon a few rules of engagement that can prevent even the most terrifying of pregnancy scares from causing long-term relationship complications.

After years of back-and-forth, sleeping in two places, bringing a bag to work and trying to schedule my week so I know I’ll be sleeping at my girlfriend’s place at least one night, I caved. I’m moving in with her. Ballgame OVER.

OK ladies, check it out: We love you. We love watching your sleeping face glow on our 150-thread count pillowcases. We love that mischievous glint in your eyes that says both, “You know what I’m thinking” and “You have absolutely no idea what I’m thinking.” We love that momentary moment of punch-drunkenness when we catch a whiff of a new fragrance that makes you smell like flowers. (And we don’t even like flowers. Doesn’t anyone realize flowers are just the clown genitals of the vegetable kingdom?)
So there you have it—we love you. Can we move on now?
We didn’t think so.