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 »
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. 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 »
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. Keep reading »
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. 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 »