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. Keep reading »
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? Keep reading »
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 our 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 slyly peeping springtime legs stretching out from under brand-new short skirts. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
An objective, partially superficial analysis of women’s magazines like Glamopolitan has led me to form the following conclusions:
If you don’t learn the 456 sex tips, he will cheat on you.
You’re not fat, girl! But here’s a diet to try!
You date nothing but losers — and therefore have an insatiable appetite for articles about men being losers. “How Not To Date A Loser.” “How To Detect A Loser.” “How To Tell If Mr. Right Is Actually A Human Trojan Horse Filled With Thimble-Sized Losers.”
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? Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »