Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Everything that is wrong with me gets me laid

Here's what women tend to like about me:

I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.

Here's what women tend to hate about me:

(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)

Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.

Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.

I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.

Good quality: I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)

Good quality: I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.

Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.

What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .

Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.

Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"

Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.

Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!

I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.

I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).

I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."

Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?

Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!

Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?

Stable equals "not a risk taker".

An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.

Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.

With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.

Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.

Read the damn COMIC!!!!!

Friday, June 5, 2009

80% nice + 20% mean

A woman's heart is like an onion. I could spend the rest of my days peeling back the layers, only to be met with more layers. There is no inner truth, only layers.

Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?

I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.

I could be wrong.

Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.

Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."

She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.

But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:
"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"

"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."

"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."

"I like being with you, too."

Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.

So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.

I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:

I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.

Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.

Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.

She was wet.

Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.

The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.

The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.

I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.

Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.

But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.

Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.

But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .

Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?