Archives for October 2015

Your Woman Might Have Blue Balls

huddleAll right, boys. Huddle up. Coach Phil is here to go over a new playbook to keep us from being shut out. Oh, I’m serious, fuckers. If you don’t want to spend your weekends with your hairy knuckles instead of the fine scent of a woman, you had best shape up. Before we go over the plays, allow me to point out what should be obvious:

  • Women need and enjoy sex as much as men. (Imagine that!)
  • Women are going to have orgasms either with or without you.
  • Get to know the clit. Fact #1: She doesn’t pee out of it.

Now, the goal here is her orgasm, not yours. Yes, I know that stings a little, but, trust me, more hergasms means way more yourgasms. With that in mind, your prime directive needs to be, specifically: SHE COMES FIRST.

Did you fucking apes just groan? Are you kidding me? Ten laps, right now! Get moving. Hut, hut, hut.

I repeat: SHE COMES FIRST.

“But, coach, what if that takes like forever?”

“Yeah, coach. And, what if she’s not in the mood to come?”

“What if I ask her to fake it, coach? Does that count?”

How did I get stuck with you sad sacks of dwindling testosterone? You don’t even deserve women. You disgust me.

“But …”

Look, shitheads, are you familiar with the legend of Purple Nuts Pete?

“No.”

A long time ago, in a distant dive bar, Pete chased this spectacular specimen known as Laura. She was young, delicious, and had an ass you could bounce a manhole cover on. She flirted and teased old Pete nightly. Pete’s pecker twitched and ached for a taste of lovely Laura, but she didn’t like Pete “like that.” Well, one night, after Laura’s ex-boyfriend disappointed her again, she numbed the pain with six shots of cold, cold Fireball. After number four, Pete got cute. After number six, Pete became a mating option. Can I get an amen, my sons?

“Amen.”

Now, Pete whisked away this delicacy to his fine abode. They tore clothes from each other as they sprinted to his California King. Pete reveled in Laura’s beauty, glistening in the moonlit bedroom. Perfect natural breasts with nipples like bank safe dials, and an arch in her lower back begging Pete to bury himself deep in her love.

Pete went straight for pay dirt, but Laura, although approaching sloppy drunk, rolled him onto his back and took him into her mouth. It was all Pete could do to delay the inevitable eruption. Suddenly, as Pete was distracting himself by naming all the sports teams that don’t end with an “s,” Laura gagged. Now, some men would be flattered. Pete, recalling how Laura staggered into his home, feared the worse. Sure enough, Laura gave Pete’s crotch a nice warm bath of cinnamon whiskey, and the fish taco she had for lunch.

“AAAAAAAARGH! No, coach! Say it ain’t so!”

It was so. Embarrassed and instantly sober, Laura sprinted from Pete’s life, never to be seen again. Pete’s balls glowed purpler than Prince’s satin onesy. Three operations later, Pete still can’t achieve full turgidity.

“Christ!”

The moral is, you ’tards, get down on your woman and give her twenty … minutes of licking. Get the difficult part of the job out of the way first, then the easy part (you). Unsure of what actually gets her off? How about asking? Why don’t you take her toy shopping? Amazon has dildos galore. Embrace the dildo, my boys. The dildo is your friend.

And, while you’re down there doing your job, mix in a few fingers. No, not in her butt, unless she specifically asks for that, and signs a waiver. As you lick the top area of her axe wound, place your index and middle finger in the inverted curveball grip (Google it), and try to scratch your nose through her pelvis. BAM! Gasm. You’re welcome.

“But, coach, one she comes, she’ll probably just fall asleep or turn on SportCenter.”

You steaming pile of useless donkey shit! Women are not built like men. Once she has an orgasm, she’s going to be jacked up like a Chihuahua on Red Bull. She’ll drain your pathetic weasel, then brag to her girlfriends about the stud she has discovered. Her orgasms will override her urge to nag you about cleaning the garage. She’ll find all sorts of reasons to get naked. There will be food fucks, candle wax, and lingerie. The angels will sing as you tongue slap her love bean into a bulb of bliss.

Here’s another benefit. Ever try to put on a condom backwards? No? Fuck, guess I’m an ass. OK, how about trying to put on a tight pair of shoes without socks? Ah! Well, if she’s dry down there, she’s not going to like your dry pepperoni stick stabbing her.

“I know, coach. Just spit in my palm, wipe, and forge ahead.”

You’re benched, Oswald. Guys, no spitting. The ladies are not fans. You want to use some saliva? Good. Get down there between those smooth thighs (she shaved for you, dickhead), and apply that mouth lube the way it was meant to applied—with your tongue.

“What if it stinks?”

Oh, and you’re some sort of rose garden, Murphy? Ever gotten a whiff of your jockstrap? Yeah, she deals with that, and your farts that smell like an Indian sewer on a hot summer day. Learn to love her scents.

Now, break huddle, and remember: SHE COMES FIRST, or Purple Nuts Pete comes for you.

Quit Your Makin’ People Happy Job

sad_clownAre you frustrated? Feel unappreciated? Never seem to get from your relationships anything close to what you invest? Well, babycakes, since you can’t control people, there’s only one solution: Do your best, and fuck ’em if they don’t like it.

It’s a horrible assignment. That’s why clowns are suicidal, stand-up comedians are addicts, and servers fantasize about making a guacamole bowl hat for Mr. My-Fajita-Is-Too-Salty. So many of us wake up and embark on happiness missions: Make the spouse happy, make the pets happy, make the kids happy, make the customers happy, make the boss happy, and repeat. Once we tie our success to others’ happiness, we’re fucked.

Now, one solution would be to become a hermit, like me. No spouse, kids, or boss to answer to. That makes me happy. Sure, I have two fuzzy tuna-bags (cats) to keep happy, but that’s simple—add food, scoop box, scratch chin. Yes, there are lonely times. Then, I go out to the watering hole. I watch the painful interview process of the first-daters, and the mundane coexistence rotting of the wed. I shrug, wanting nothing more than a refill.

Another solution would be to care less. Measure yourself by your intent. Expect the judgement of others, but don’t respect it. If it’s positive, appreciate it. If it’s negative, walk away. If this sounds selfish to you, good. Be selfish. That’s the eleventh commandment, which didn’t print because the toner ran out.

“Never tyist thoust happiness to others.”

This is the most frustrating part about dating, as well. The man has to make the woman happy in order to gain access. I guess this is called courting or wooing. It involves all sorts of shenanigans like foot rubbing, neck nuzzling, and wallet opening. It requires timely texts of sufficient length, well-timed flattery, and instinct-contrary blinders. All that work, and the vagina is still dry. Poor sap.

You have those friends who insist they’d rather be in unfulfilling relationships than alone. “Silliness,” I say. “Susan needs a better vibrator, and the confidence to order a fine steak at a bar without a side dish of needy man.”

My bed guest vacancy lands me in some interesting situations (a wonderful cure for writer’s block). Often, I’m therapist to female friends being mistreated. I enjoy that role. There are lessons buried in the misdeeds of other men. I listen, console, and fight the urge to feast on easy prey. I’m an animal, not a beast. Other times I’m the third or fifth wheel, deflecting attempts to set me up and add me to the cult of coexistence.

It’s not healthy to be disappointed because you didn’t receive more likes for your post, a large enough bonus, or sufficient emojis in his text message reply. Judge yourself by your effort, not by their reactions. You’re not in grade school any longer. There are no report cards, gold stars, or varsity letters to worry about. Cast away the unappreciative. Do what you do with an air of confidence and satisfaction.

I, for one, appreciate you. You’ve read this and made me happy … and, you don’t give a shit. Good!