Archives for November 2014

How To Date Lumbersexuals

LumbersexualWell, this is a new type of rugged dude, eh? His face resembles the turf in Green Bay after a muddy October game—patches of scraggly fuzz. His closet contains three plaid flannel shirts, each with cigarette burns and missing buttons. He probably has stretched-out knit caps, too-tight jeans, and boots with laces dangling. You like?

The main problem I have here is false advertizing. I would bet few of these grizzly bears could actually swing an ax. They’re most likely into listening to acoustic guitar on a cafe patio while sipping lattes, and vaping.

I suppose I could understand the attraction to a kindler, gentler lumberjack. Don’t ya just want to at the very least comb some conditioner through that chin turf. Ugh! All right. Perhaps it tickles your love kitten when he’s face-muff-to-muff. Fine.

First things first. Where does one find Mr. Jack? No, not in the forest. Aside from the aforementioned cafes, I’d expect them to congregate in dive bars. Sure, you might catch a stray in a wine bar, but something is off about an ape-man carrying stemware. If you can find a good dive bar (send me the address, please), go there and hang around the pool tables. I’m sure the Muppet-looking fellow will be easy to spot.

I must add a disclaimer here, because I recently watched an episode of Transparent (Amazon series), which featured a bearded fellow who had—get this—a vagina. Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but let’s just say there’s a place most of us would not expect to find a vagina. Naturally, my sick mind won’t allow me to perish the thought. No. Next, I begin to imagine what it would be like to be down on a muffin while staring up at a bearded chin. Not my cup of tea. Might be yours though.

Chances are, Mr. Jack is actually Jack, not Jill. He probably comes with the desired appendage. Let’s just hope he’s a bit more attentive around trimming the hedges. Few ladies carry leaf blowers, although I’ve seen some bags that could fit one. Mr. Jack insists on being unique, and proving to the world he doesn’t care. You can reward his behavior by approaching him with a unique beverage, such as a bourbon with muttled fruit. Hand it to him, challenge him to a game of 8-Ball, and you’ll be well on your way to peeling the flannel from him.

Now, just because you are dating an almost-hipster doesn’t mean you need to dress the part. Yet, if you want to net his heart, purple hair dye, a few tattoos, nose and eyebrow piercings, and low-riding skinny jeans will have him raising a caterpillar eyebrow. Take it another step by going braless under a trendy tank, while wearing one of his flannels unbuttoned over the top. Hubba, hubba.

What sort of activities should you consider to keep him chopping at your bits? I suggest camping, concerts in the desert, craft beer tastings, and clothes shopping at second-hand shops. Resist any activity that requires him to eat something with gravy on it. Also, flannel doesn’t breathe well, so tanning isn’t optimal.

Enjoy your lumbersexual, while he’s trendy—another month or so.

How To Date Lazy Men

lazymenHere’s a pet peeve of mine: Dirty dishes left in the sink or, worse yet, on the counter above the dishwasher. The person who does this is, indeed, lazy. This person needs to be smitten (not the loving kind).

So, if this sort of nonsense annoys you, don’t date a lazy man. He’s had way too much mothering, and you don’t want to play stepmom, which would eventually turn him into a stepmotherfucker. Interesting.

Yet, there are those women who enjoy doting all over their men. These women don’t mind such icky things as:

  • Picking up clothes next to the hamper, and putting them in the hamper.
  • Having sex with underwear still draped on one leg.
  • Staining a comforter.
  • Putting the toilet seat down (after wiping the pee drops from the rim).
  • Replacing the toothpaste cap.
  • Drinking that final ounce of burnt coffee, and making another pot.
  • An empty milk carton in the fridge.
  • Ironing
  • Peeing in the shower.

All right, Miss Evermom, here’s how you identify and meet a lazy boy. Whilst in a bar, look for the man wearing a wrinkled shirt. Other telltale signs include non-manicured scruff, nails, or back of neck hair. He also may have his own pitcher or growler of beer to save him from ponderous trips to the bar. Even better are the men who sneak their own booze into the bar.

If you’re seated at the bar, you can also identify him as the fellow who orders a “beer,” instead of a particular brand. This applies to whiskey as well. He’ll refuse a beer glass, and probably stick his gum on the coaster. Another thing he’ll do is place a call to his friend (who is probably 20 feet away) to ask something silly like, “Are sweet potato fries good for you?” This fellow also uses his phone to text his friend for directions, not quite grasping the concept of Google Maps.

The best way to approach this man is to offer a service of some kind. No, I’m not recommending you offer a sexual service, unless you’re in that line of work. Perhaps you could tuck his shirt tag in, or dab that wing sauce from his chinny chin chin. You could suggest the two of you venture off to another fine establishment, and you’ll drive so he can get blottoed.

When you finally get him back to your place, be aware that sex with him may take some getting used to. He’s going to want to skip the good parts and head straight for insertion. Like a naughty puppy, he can be trained. Swat his snout with rolled up newspaper, and say, “Bad boy! Now look what you didn’t do,” while pointing at your Sahara-dry love tunnel. If he doesn’t get the hint, just grab him by the ears (pluck some of those stray ear hairs, while you’re at it), and send him southerly.

Enjoy your lump of man, my dear.

How To Date The Other Man

Man proposing to unsure womanI’m sure you’ve had this happen, multiple times: You’re on a ponderous date with Mr. Tedium and, lo and behold, right across from you appears Mr. Moreright. You don’t want to be rude, but “oh, my gawd,” this new guy is just dreamy. The date you’re on is heading nowhere. Heck, you’ll probably feign a migraine triggered by his unbuckling of your bra. How does a girl escape this monotony, and enter the wild domain of this new beast?

Simple.

Make sure the server keeps refilling your date’s water glass. In fact, go ahead and dump some of yours in there. Eventually (unless he has a basketball bladder, like I have), he’ll excuse himself to the little boys’ room. That’s when you make your move.

Tell the target man that the guy you’re with is just a friend, from your perspective. You’ve been on a few dates, but there’s no chemistry. Make your intentions clear. Tell the new guy you want him inside you … now! OK, no, don’t say that. Sorry. Tell Mr. Moreright that you’re intrigued and would love to have a drink with him and see where it leads.

By now, the fellow about to get a boot to the butt should be returning from the bathroom and, fuck, if you didn’t forget to slide your number to Mr. Moreright. No problem. You need another distraction. Ask your date to get a tiny glass of club soda from the bar because you spilled some Pinot. As he scurries away per your wishes, tell Mr. Moreright to grab his celly, and start a-typing. Tell him your name, too, so he doesn’t have you in his contacts as “Oddchick Intome.”

When your date returns with the club soda, he may suspect some foul play, especially if Mr. Moreright is toe fucking you under the table. (Don’t do that. Not sanitary.) Brush it off like Taylor Swift, and power through your date. If you’re mean to your date, it will set off all sorts of alarms for Mr. Moreright, and he’ll delete your contact before your lovely tush leaves the scene. Then again, if you have a lovely tush, Mr. Moreright won’t sense any infraction on your part. Heck you could stab your date with a cocktail fork. He won’t care. (OK, don’t do that, either. Cocktail sauce burns.)

If Mr. Moreright is sufficiently interested, he’ll text you before you conclude your date. It will most likely be something innocuous, like “Hi.” It’s a start. Don’t check your phone. You know it’s there. Wait until Mr. Dumpster-Bound drops you off, then start texting your evil intentions.

Now, you need to be aware of one slight dilemma: Once you’re on a date with Mr. Moreright, he’s going to be on to your shit, and he will catch you if you play him like the last. Try to keep your eyes and digits to yourself. At least wait a few dates to see if the new guy is a decent kisser who lives by the phrase “She comes first.”

It is also entirely likely that you will run into the man you discarded while on a date with Mr. Moreright. Awkward. There’s really nothing you can say. Just shrug, giving the impression that stomping on his heart was an accident. He won’t forgive you. Meh, so what?

How To Date Men at a Titty Bar

stripperIf you’re not a stripper, you can skip this. Then again, the man you date might occasionally visit such an establishment, so you might as well understand how he’s treated. If you are a stripper, I’m sitting on my hands, I don’t have my wallet right now, and no, I don’t want a fucking VIP dance.

When the DJ calls you out to the stage, scan the area, and make immediate eye contact with the least swinely of the pigs in the pen. Pick one who you might—after a long sex drought, and lots of tequila—actually sleep with. Spin around the pole a few times, get down on all fours, crawl up to him, remove his baseball cap, and tell him how sexually frustrated you are.

Side note: He’s well aware that you’re far from sexually frustrated, but he’ll play along because you have boobies.

Speaking of boobies, now’s a good time to grab him by the back of his head, smash his face into your tit valley, and pound his cheeks with your nipples. I hope he’s not allergic to your vanilla skin cream. Hives are hard to work around.

Continue your dance. Ignore him a bit. Arch your back and bounce your vag on the stage like you’re tacking carpet. Then, glance back at him, make eye-contact, and smile.

By now, DJ Crackhead will probably call Ginger to the stage. Gather your three folded ones, step down, and stroll over to the target. Sit on his lap. Repeat the “sexually frustrated” nonsense, and ask him to take you in the back for a “special” private dance. Tell him he can do almost anything back there, and it’s only $20 a song. He’ll probably insist on four or five songs, tops. Ignore that.

Side note two: He knows that while he may be allowed to grab your ass or pinch a nipple, there will be no sucking or fucking, unless, of course, you are in Tijuana.

Once you have him back in the private room, strip down to your chonies, and start a-grinding. Whisper in his ear all sorts of compliments about that lonely lump in his pants.

Side note three: He knows you’ve been railed many times by peni (I prefer that to “penises”) far superior to the acorn in his lap. He doesn’t care.

Turn around, squat onto his lap, and grind away until he makes cumsies. If you’re exceptionally talented, you can check your email while doing this. Once he climaxes, climb off, kiss his cheek, and hand him a wetnap.

By now, it has probably been something like six songs. That’s $120. Not bad for twenty minutes, but why not aim higher? What’s ole gooey shorts gonna do? Tell him it was awesome, that you came too, and the tab is $200.

Side note four: He’s sure you did not come. What he is currently experiencing is post-ejaculation depression. All he wants to do is get rid of you, and find a way to cover the wet spot on his pants so his bar-side buddies don’t see it.

If he expresses regret or balks at the price, shrug, point out the bouncer, collect your $200 (plus tip), and move along to your next lover.