Archives for April 2016

Team Cross-Sex

teamcrossDo we really need someone yelling encouragement to do what’s good for us? That annoyance should have ended with, “Eat your lima beans or no Oreos for you.” We don’t need trainers or teammates telling us to do one more rep. I hated having a spotter while benching. A man’s sweaty nuts inches from my forehead is motivation for nothing other than decreasing the weight so I don’t need a spotter.

Yet, I watch the news and see a new team fitness joint opening up almost weekly. Even in my 24 Hour Fitness center, I’ll occasionally find a bunch of miserable saps tossing balls, ropes, and kettle bells while an overly energetic guru yells instruction. Yesterday was one of my can-take-no-more days, so I asked the front desk attendant, “How can we make that stop?” I received a stink eye. The silly noises continued.

Well, if this is appropriate for gyms, how about the bedrooms? Sign me up. Call me Trey the Cross-Sex Coach. I’ll set up five twin beds in a circle. I’ll pivot in the middle, giving instruction.

“Joe, what are you doing? Rub her feet, damn it!”

“Amy, for fuck’s sake will you stop checking your phone while Rob goes down on you?”

“That’s right, Chris. Stroke, stroke, stroke! All right, mix in a little stirring action. You’re not a piston. Stir, Chris. That’s it. Like you’re making butter. Atta kid.”

“Joanne, why are you being so silent? This is not a theater. Tell Jack what you want. Insist upon it. No asking. Tell him. Grab his ears. There ya go!”

“Jeff, did you just have an orgasm? Are you kidding me right now? Look what you did. I ought to rub your nose in it. Bad boy! Now, you go suck down some coconut water, watch five minutes of porn, and get your ass back here. You’ve let your teammate down. Shame. You best come back and deliver her two orgasms to make up for your premi-puddle of disappointment.”

“OK, team. Take five. Remember to breathe. Yes, I know I should not have to tell you to do something so basic to survival. Deal with it. Next, I’m going to introduce some devices to help you feel the burn. This half-ball thingie—I want the man on it, woman straddling. Ladies, your objective is to knock him off. Men, if your ass hits the hardwood, I’m going to snap you with this wet yoga towel. By the way, it’s wet with foot sweat—old man foot sweat. Keep your balance. This is ideal core work here. Stop whining and start bouncing.”

“Next we have these five-pound kettle bells. Time to tighten those cheeks, ladies. Place the handle in your ass crack. Squeeze, lift … two … three, and down. Nice. I’ll add in another prop. Your teammate is to throw ping pong balls at your clit. Drop that kettle bell and I’m going to put Pro Wrestling on the monitors. There ya go. Lift … two … three. Oh, Alison. Really? You’ve let us all down. Ever hear of Haystacks Calhoun? You will. Embrace the overalls.”

Hm. I may be on to something.

Welcome Back, Beaver

beaverI feared she was gone forever. Hairless cats are not cute. Neither are hairless beavers. For whatever reason(s) in recent years, ladies have insisted upon shaving or lasering off all of their curlies. Well, if some man was behind this travesty, he needs a good beating.

The reasons for intentionally balding the beavski might include:

  • Concern over scent retention. News flash: Men love that scent, whether they admit it or not.
  • Concern over puffiness in bikini. Duly noted, but wouldn’t a camel toe be worse (or better, IMHO)?
  • The impression that this would increase the rate of oral favors.
  • The horrific discovery of gray pubes.
  • The hopes that it would simplify locating the clit without Google Maps.

These are poor reasons. I’m not saying you need a pussy-fro, but some hair down there is fine and natural. Invest in a clipper, or use your pet’s (I won’t tell), and take a few swipes to trim it back. Leave enough so there’s a curl—perhaps half-an-inch to an inch. If you trim too close, you’re going to leave a five o’clock shadow.

No bueno.

I can understand ladies and men shaving down for Olympic swimming and porn. It might trim a few seconds off laps and masturbation sessions. For some, close-ups of private parts need to be as unobscured as possible in order to climax. Also, for some (men only), all hair and darkness must also be removed from the lady anus, or the up-close viewing of such is cringe-worthy and boner-worthless.

I don’t know. Hair belongs there. There’s some biological reason, I’m sure. Perhaps, that hair traps the scent and attracts us whether we admit it or not. While I certainly take mental notes, the presence or absence of hair will not hasten or prevent my appreciation.

Do ladies have the same opinions of male parts? When discussing “Dick Deets” with the girlies, is ball hair covered as a main topic? I would expect more discussion around length, girth, and stamina. Naturally, if there’s a bout of fur-ball hacking after delivery of his first BJ, that’s a topic worth discussing. (When one of my cats is heaving one of those, he sounds like he’s giving oral birth to a panda so, no, I don’t want to ever hear that noise down between my thighs. That would be a bad night, no matter how many orgasms were to follow. I’d expect to find it on her blog. I’d expect her friends to point at me and scream, a la Body Snatchers. Hence, my balls are lightly blanketed in a cashmere-smooth layer of fine Italian fuzz.)

So, if you were planning on finishing your bath by putting down your Kindle, standing, soaping the muffin, placing one leg up on the ledge, and taking the cute pink razor to your princess, please reconsider. Allow her to keep her sheer fur scarf. It will save you money (disposable razors are way expensive) and that love lawn should keep her warm and happy … like me.

How to Make Her Scream

screamerCatchy title, right? I often browse through recommended titles on my Kindle and find interesting ditties. I’m always up for advice, especially when it comes to landing a mate. You never know when someone will come up with a fresh idea for hooking a mate and keeping her on the hook (instead of sneaking around hooking up with that young bartender with abs … I hate him … high-haired bastard).

When I saw a title about making my woman scream, the first thing that came to mind was: Simple. Throw a spider at her. The second thing that came to mind was the realization that the author was specifically referring to screaming with joy. Ah, buy her a Bullet Blender! Off target again. Yes, I know. How to make her scream with joy while bringing her to orgasm.

You got me.

Actually, I would prefer my woman to whisper her appreciation. Screaming and squirting is really unnecessary—it scares the cats and neighbors.

It’s silly to write a book about this because women are distinct. Some are more sensitive. I’ve had a few begin carrying on before I even got the jeans to their knees. I’ve had others plank on me. (“Play dead,” should only be applied to bear attacks, my dears.)

Like with other physical activities, frequent use can cause insensitivity. I’m not saying I’ve encountered clit callouses, but by the third time through the alphabet, my tongue begins to fall asleep.

Had one fuckbuddy who insisted the only way she could have an orgasm is to take it in the dumper while holding a jackhammer-strength vibe on her love bean. Even then, she warned, it was no guarantee. She’s a keeper.

Others require other external stimulation, such as porn. I realize the scream is germinated in the mind as a thought. That thought could be a fantasy or memory. I can’t control the memory part. Heck, if she needs to recall how Jonah pounded her sore, freshman year, that’s cool with me. Men need to learn to appreciate prior lovers for molding the beast about to be ridden.

The best way I’ve found to plant the scream seed is by telling her what I’m going to do to her (minus the spider) before doing it. Anticipation tends to get the damsels dewy. That mental preview should include the promise of oral treats—sure to strengthen the fountains of love.

“So, tonight, when you get home, I want you to take a long bath, then go straight to bed, completely naked. I’m coming home with an assortment of adult toys, lubricants, and a strong desire to lick you like a rocket pop until you are swimming in a puddle of your love nectar. You will have three to five orgasms tonight. Plan on it. I will give you ten minute breaks between deliveries, so you can pee and check your phone. By midnight, I want your legs so rubbery, and your mind so blown, that you won’t be able to make it through tomorrow’s workday without rubbing one out while reminiscing about how Big Daddy flew you to planet Orgasmodia.”

Did you just scream? Oh, go ahead. Open a window and wail away. Please? Come on. Do it.

Uber Sex

ubersexWow, times have really changed since I filled out my first Yahoo! Dating profile. It was all about being somewhat serious, embellishing where necessary, and sprinkling in the occasional brag. Then, it was off to the hunting grounds to find a mate who lied at a similar level.

Now, tap your Uber app, and in mere minutes you may find yourself enjoying the ride of your life while your panties fly on your big toe like a terrible towel. You may say this is my perverted mind at work. Perhaps. Yet, I have heard stories from more than one woman who has made a driver’s job quite marvelous.

It’s kind of odd, because “This taxicab driver picked me up, and he was hot, so we fucked,” is a true story that has never been told. Oh, I’ve heard accounts of people fooling around in the back seat of cabs. Sure. Every part of me except my inner germiphobe has no issues with that. Still, nobody is tossing a gratuitous fuck to Omar of What-the-hell-do-you-eat-ville.

Younger generation peeps speak matter-of-factly about encounters like this.

“Yeah, he was cute, so I made out with him.”

“The Uber driver?”

“Yup.”

“How does that happen? Weren’t you sitting in the back?”

“Yes, but we flirted a bit. He pulled over. I climbed up front, and we kissed.”

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t get a judge-y with me, mister. I’ve been single for a few months, and I needed to make out with a boy, so I did.”

“Did you have sex? Did you get his number? Are you dating now?”

“Maybe, no, and ew, no. I’m not going to date some boy who has sex with his Uber passengers.”

“But, you … um … right. Of course, not.”

This whole thing makes me want to drive for Uber. Yet, when I imagine myself in this role, I foresee a much greater likelihood of drunk chicks puking in my back seat. That’s a significant risk when the driver insists on hanging around clubs as they let out, hoping to pick up a jilted, neglected, low-ambition-having woman looking to get a few more miles out of those uncomfortable heels.

“Where to, Nancy? Or, should we just make out?”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re adorable, and there’s no high-haired, overly tatted UFC wannabe on your arm, so I assume you could use a ride with advanced features.”

“No. Actually, I just want a ride home, Creepy McCreepster.”

No Means Try Harder?

nomeansmaybeSorry, but I was taught at an early age (with a wooden spoon, etc.) that “No” means “NO.” Hence, when I ask for something, especially from a woman, once I hear “No,” off I go.

Recently, I had a woman tell me that “No” sometimes means, “No, but, maybe if you try harder, YES.”

Are you fucking kidding me right now?

Why not just say, “Maybe,” then? Makes me crazy. I’ve had this happen numerous times. I ask her out, she refuses, and I move on as to avoid being that creepy stalker guy. Weeks, months, or even years later, I’ll hear something like, “Well, you must not have been that interested in dating me, otherwise you would have tried harder.”

… and, my anguish turns another chin hair gray.

What does that even mean—try harder? Does that mean I should ask again? Say, “please?” Beg? Begin sending cards, flowers, and Bitmojis?

FUCK!

Look, Missy, if you’re saying I have a shot, tell me what it will take. Then, like a reasonable human, I will weigh the effort required against the anticipated return (yes, that includes sex), and decide if I will make the investment or move on the easier conquests. When you tell me “no,” I’m done, as to avoid landing my sweet ass in prison.

I don’t say no and mean maybe. If I’m not interested, her trying harder is not going to make me interested, it’s going to make me uncomfortable. Yes, I know I’ve made my share of women uncomfortable with my persistence, so I learned to not do that. Beggars don’t want sympathy. That’s a value-free offering. So, if she keeps after me, once I begin to feel bad for her, I run away or do something completely repulsive to end it. I suppose women could do the same. If a woman hocked up a loogie and spit it on my loafer, that would end my persistence.

Hey, let’s learn from weather forecasts. How about providing a chance of participation when there actually is a chance? If I ask, and you’re not feeling it, but you’re not ready to slam the vaginal door in my face, give me my odds of access. More help would be if you let me know in which direction those odds are heading. If Chardonnay is greasing the hinges to said door, I’ll be refilling that stemware in a jiffy. If your cat allergies make my furry sons and me intolerable, tell me, “Zero chance, man. Move to a new climate.”

It would also be a HUGE boon if you shared what things I could do to improve my chances. While I can’t grow taller and be younger, I certainly can act the part. If it’s as simple as kissing with more tongue, why wouldn’t you say so? Come on. You don’t want me reading your mind any more than your blog. Clothing and hairstyles are negotiable. Baseball is not. Sorry. Thermostat settings, Netflix selections, and hot versus cold sake are all negotiable. Give me a nudge. I won’t bite you.

The next time I hear a no, I’m going to ask for clarification: “Is that ‘no’ a maybe?” But, if you respond, “No,” will that mean maybe? Ugh.

Tinder Tapout

tindertapoutThank you, Nikki Glaser, for this fun reminder of how dick-driven men are. In case you haven’t seen her show (get out from under that rock), this involves setting up a fake Tinder profile with hot girl photos. Then, men are sought out for chatting. Once connected, ladies begin taking turns responding to the man-fish, using ridiculous claims to get him to “tap out” and leave the conversation.

Spoiler Alert: If she’s sufficiently hot, he will avoid tapping out at all costs. I hope this wasn’t actually a spoiler. You knew this, right?

Most attempts at getting the guy to tap out involve some combination of the following:

  • STDs
  • Horrible Grammar
  • Mentioning the L-word (Love, not lesbian.)
  • Dangerous Spouse

As a man, I can tell you why we can get past any combination of the above, should the target be sufficiently attractive.

No matter what disease she has, there’s a way around it. Condoms, BJs, and heck, even a handjob will do.

Let me be clear about grammar. As an author, who should be highly skilled at such, and demand the same from those in his company, I can tell you how much I care is inversely proportional to how hot she it. Fat, snooty, entitled beasts will feel the wrath of my red pen for tiny infractions, such as ending a sentence with a proposition (intended misuse, my love). Hot girls can abbreviate “you,” use the wrong “there,” and bury me in emojis (can’t fucking see them anyway), and it’s as if a tree didn’t fall in the forest.

Love does not scare me. It’s a word—like, pomegranate. I’ve told women on first dates I love them, just to get that out of the way. Their reactions tell me if there’s a second date. (Note: The proper reaction is laughter followed by an “I love you, too.”) OK, maybe there’s one exception: “I love wearing pointy heels and stomping on my man’s balls.” Yep, I’m out.

The dangerous spouse thing I encounter way too often. Usually, after a few dates, as I’m fetching the sex puddle mop, I’ll hear something like this:

“So, did I mention that I’m technically married, but we’re splitting up?”

“No, you didn’t mention that.”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’m moving out. He’s giving me a hard time. Sucks, too, because he’s a cop and can make my life pretty miserable. Ya know?”

“Would it be safe for me to assume this man-with-a-gun knows nothing of me and the fact that I routinely feel you from the inside?”

“Um …”

Yeah, I’m out again.

What might it take for a man to get his Tinder target to tap out? Very little. Doesn’t matter if I’m fan-your-face sexy. I can lose the poor thing on the other end in three messages or less … of course, unless she happens to be as desperate as the average single man. Nah, even then.

Messages I might use to tap her out:

  • “Can I shit on you while I sing the spam song by Monty Python?”
  • “Hey, my dad says you must be a desperate cum dumpster to be looking for cock on Tinder.”
  • “I’m voting for Trump.”

Oh, and I should warn you that if you pull this prank on me and try to get me to tap out, I will unleash the unholy beast within me. I’ll find you and your girlfriends, then interrupt your little party. Shame on you, sitting around that wine bar fire pit, making fun of a somewhat decent man who happens to be searching for love. Shame, I say! I will show up wearing horizontal stripes, leather sandals, and a pinky ring. I’ll be carrying a Budweiser. Oh, yes I will. Then, I will pull up a stool and ask, “Whatcha doin’?” Uh huh. I’ll order the hottest wings they serve, and eat them with my bare fingers. My face will be covered in orange goo and ranch dressing. Muah, ha ha ha! Then, after lighting a fart, I will demand the homeliest one of you drives me back to my parents’ house. Yes, I will try to shove my Tabasco-laden fingers down her jeans during the ride. Ooh! I warned you. Don’t you do it. Don’t swipe me, fucker.

Argh!!!

The Magical Jacket

jacketLesson number one in the traveler’s handbook for Las Vegas includes the suggestion to never buy anything in a casino store. Still, to get the blood flowing in my legs after feeding $200 into the bar-top video poker machine, I’ll peruse the fancy shops. Sometimes it’s fun to play “Name that Price” in the Rolex store. I can enjoy my little walk while heeding lesson one: DON’T BUY ANYTHING.

I stumbled upon a John Varvatos store. I like his style, although I’m not quite the wafey, high-haired twat I used to be. Men deal with this the same way women do—go up one size and avoid whites and stripes. I browsed. I exposed a few tags and hid my shock. Then, the logic override unit arrived. She was skilled and adorable. I was fucked.

“Hey there, handsome. Ooh, you smell good. What are you wearing?”

“Old, Old Spice.”

“Ha, ha. You are not, silly. Smells like Creed.”

“Well played, my love.”

“So, I’m dying to see you in this lambskin burnished jacket we got in today.”

“You are?”

“Come with me. Here. Feel this. Soft, huh? Please, try it on.”

“How much is it?”

“Just try it on. Come on. Play along. It’s going to look amazing on you.”

She smiles, giggles, and flirts with the best of them. Like when a stripper flirts with me, I’m aware that there’s zero chance she’s interested in anything but that lump in my back pocket. Still, I try it on. It looks and feels great. It’s $1800. No fucking way.

“Wow. I’m speechless. That’s looks incredible. Women won’t be able to keep their hands off. You had better warn the missus.”

“Oh, I’m not married. Here with an employee. She’s hot, but there’s no sleeping with the employees, ya know?”

“Well, I don’t work for you. Tee, hee.”

“Really? You’re killing me.”

This banter went on and on. I finally peeled myself away, without removing my wallet. Then, like that bowl of M&Ms, it drew me back. I bought the jacket. She gave me a business card. Wrote her cell number on the back. Said she was coming to SD soon, and I should call her.

Right. Oh, and I failed lesson one, horribly. FML

Well, roll forward a month, and sure enough, when I wear that jacket, women pet me. It’s like I’m a fluffy puppy. She was right. Does she really want to hook up with me here in SD? Nope. Is it worth 1800 bones to be stroked? Perhaps. Hey, at least I know my weakness, and have learned to live with it instead of beating myself up.

Philsy, are you queer, boy?

johnnyI slept with a woman, recently. (It happens.) We both also happened to be tipsy. She had a boyfriend. I had naught, except more years of wear and tear. She wanted to cuddle. I cuddled. She had lovely parts I wanted to explore. I couldn’t.

Then, she asked, “Are you gay?”

“What? No! Why do you ask?”

“I mean, it’s OK if you are.”

“Gee, thanks, and NO!”

“You’re sure? Nothing wrong with it, you know?”

“These things you have—a few here, a few there—I like these things. I want to squeeze them lots, hence I’m hetero.”

“If you say so.”

At this point, you might expect that her query was a dare, which I accepted. Then, I tore the clothes from her, and proved I’m strictly non-dickly.

Nope.

Why does being a gentleman get misinterpreted as a sign that I am unstimulated and uninterested in girlie goodies? Worse, this gets taken a step further as a likely indication of gaiety.

I guess it could be worse. She could take it personally and be devastated that I find her unattractive. Then, she could cry and dampen my pillow with her salty, low self-esteem. Once inebriated, I’m not the best therapist. While she is quite adorable, tears are always unattractive.

Even my Tito’s soaked brain can process the indications, though not quite accurately, it seems. As she curled into fetal position and backed her posterior against my fronterior, I agonized over my options.

  • Be a good boy. Cuddle for a few minutes. Quietly sneak downstairs and make her a latte. Wish her a good day. Send her on her way. Go back to bed and make belly puddles thinking about what should have been. Lie there unlaid and empty.
  • Begin caressing her while paying attention to her breathing patterns. If they speed up and deepen, proceed. Slide hand under shirt. Note progress. Breathing heavier? Undo top button on her jeans. Any elbows? No. Thank the heavens and proceed.
  • Go straight for it. She called you gay. Show her non-gay. Throw lesbian porn on the flat screen, take out the vibrating toys, dive on top of her, remove her clothing, and don’t stop until she has three orgasms and requests a bag of ice.

Alas, I am an ass—a straight ass—so I did nothing more than cuddle.

My cowardice haunts me.

Good Richard

mohelSeems the penis needs more discussion. If it’s not your cup of pee, lick a finger and flip the page. I’ve been hearing a lot about penis recently, so it goes here. The ladies who treat me platonically aren’t shy about discussing penises (peni?) around me, the proud owner of one (penum), which has been both fulfilling and disappointing to my lovers and me. Still, he’s my pole mate, so I love my Willie.

One term I keep hearing is “good dick.” This is used both in the sense of missing and needing one, and having one, often attached to an unworthy owner. I scratch my balls and wonder, what actually makes “good” dick. Surely, it can’t be as simple as length or girth. Bend, perhaps? Clipped or not? Time spent turgid versus flaccid?

If I weren’t an introvert, I’d unzip and ask for ratings and suggestions.

“Ladies, please say hello to my little friend, Willie. I’m happy to take requests on behalf of my pants puppet.”

“All right. You asked for it.”

“Wait, should I coax him from his shell first?”

“Thank you for being so considerate, but no.”

“Fine. What do you think?”

“I don’t see any warts. That’s good.”

“Yeah, burned them off with a cigarette.”

“You what?”

“Kidding. My puppet, whilst quite lonely, is a clean puppet.”

“Good. I see you trim around the base. Good call.”

“Thank you. Although, you should know I don’t mind a little shrubbery on the lady parts.”

“Lasered mine off. Deal with it. Lift him up so I get a better angle.”

“There ya go.”

“Wow. You have a scar. I’m afraid to ask.”

“Fear not. Either my mohel was clumsy with my schmuck, or I caught it my zipper.”

“You’re Jewish?”

“No, why? Are Jews bad with the zipper thing?”

“Never mind. All I can say is you might have good dick. I don’t see anything keeping you from it. The most appropriate analysis requires seeing how he performs, and, before you ask, I’m not signing up for that.”

“Damn it. So, it’s all in how I use it.”

“And, how long you use it.”

“So good dick would have stamina.”

“Yes, but within reason.”

“Are we talking minutes or hours?”

“More than minutes, less than hours, unless we have lube.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Sure. Motion is important. Don’t just be sawing wood, ya know? Swirl him around a bit. Change positions.”

“What if I pull him out and spank you on the bean with his helmet?”

“You watch too much porn.”

“Right. What about balls? Must good dick have good balls in order to be good dick?”

“Kind of. They shouldn’t be bushy or hanging down by your knees. Other than that, it’s hard to ruin good dick with subpar balls.”

“Thank you. This has been quite helpful.”

“No problem. Look, you have what you have. You can’t change that. Just learn to do the most with what you have, and when it doesn’t cooperate, use other parts.”

“Fingers and tongue. Roger. Ten-four.”

“That’s right. And, always remember, there’s lots of good dick waiting on deck. Be good or be gone.”

Stumpy

gherkinThis whole “Nice Guy” thing started when I heard the phrase used to describe me. Whenever there’s a “nice” there’s usually a nasty “but” following. It could be the typical reasons:

  • But he’s too old.
  • But he isn’t a good Christian fellow.
  • But he’s a player.
  • But he has cats.
  • But he drinks too much.

I’ve grown ego calluses over all those reasons. Basically, zero fucks given after the “nice” thing. Still, the one “but” that would knock the wind from me is the one given by a delicious little cutie to describe her boy who has everything, “but, he’s packing a three-inch stump.”

Ouch!

Never met the guy, yet I wanted to defend Ole Gherkin. What could I say?

“Three inches soft?” (I said, hopingly.)

“Half an inch soft.”

“Kah-rhyst! Um. Maybe it just seems small.”

“Are you saying I have a cavernous vag?”

“No, silly. I mean, perhaps it’s closer to five inches. It’s not like you actually took a ruler down there, did ya?”

“See my middle finger?”

“Yes … and, that’s impolite.”

“No, what’s impolite is his cock, which is smaller than my finger. What’s impolite is that significant areas of my ladiness are sadly and badly neglected.”

“Yikes. Hey, I bet he can eat a mean pussy, right? I mean, guys with tiny peckers gotta have MVP lingus skills, yo.”

“No.”

“OK, you need to toss that minnow back to the sea.”

“He’s everything I want in a man, and more.”

“You mean ‘less.’ Bwah, ha, ha!”

“You’re not helping.”

“Look, darling, there’s no happy ending to this short story.”

“Keep it up.”

“I tease. Just break up with him. For God’s sake, don’t tell him it’s because he has pinky penis.”

Doubt she took my advice. Another alternative is to add a fuckbuddy to the roster to get those hard-to-reach spots. Fuckbuddies usually are assholes, so use them as necessary. Meanwhile, I’m going to do twenty dick-ups to avoid being Stumpy II.

Go Get Your Man

hunterHave you ever found yourself in a situation where your eyes meet a stranger’s eyes, and you feel chills telling you this could be the one? Of course, you have. So, what do you do about it? Do you smile? Wink? Wave him over? Or, do you calmly wait for him to be the man and approach you?

Sadly, this man can say that either indications of interest are becoming rare from the ladies, or my senses are truly dulling.

If you currently have a bed vacancy, may I suggest an alternative to playing coy? Let that cute fella know you’re interested. I’m not saying grab his ding-dong and say, “I want this inside me tonight.” Although, with most of us, that would be quite effective. Act like a lady huntress. Tell him he’s cute, ask if he’s “taken” (ew, I hate that word in that context), and suggest you two have a little date-ski and see where it leads.

Look, if you don’t do it, some slutty bar skank will. And, no, approaching him does not earn you your slutty skank pin. You’re different. You have honest and good intentions. You’re not going after some random boy to pin your ankles behind your ears and slam the bejesus out of you. This, my dear, is a potential lover—one with whom you could see yourself having conversations, beach walks, and mocha lattes. Sure, the hope is that he’ll eventually bring you to O-town, but not tonight.

Women rarely approach me. I’m not the intimidating type, so that’s not the reason. Those who recognize me from my silly prose, tend to avoid me like dirty toilet seats. My bad. If it’s not my irreverence shooing them away, I have to assume it’s my appearance. Black T-shirts and baseball caps can only conceal so much. Meh. I drink best alone.

Have you heard that it’s a numbers game? It certainly is. But if you just stare at the hunk buffet and wait for the food to jump into your mouth, you’re going hungry. Take your dish and start picking. Try a tall one. Try a small one. Try a round one. Try a brown one. Try an old one … please, try a fucking old one.

Imagine this: You’re happily coupled but you’re out with a friend who is single and needs some penetration. She remarks that there’s a cutie in the corner, but she’s too shy to bat her eyes. What do you do? Do you support her shyness? Do you want to spend another hour hearing about her ex? No, you don’t. So, on your next bladder emptying, you stop by studly, point her out, and tell him to fetch. See? You have no problem approaching prey for a friend. It’s so easy. No fear of rejection, because if he declines, you’ll save your friend’s fragile ego by telling her you saw him making out with Bruce.

If you can do it for her, you can do it for you. Don’t worry about rejection—welcome it. That “nope” gets you one step closer to the next “yep.” Even if he declines, he may have a cute friend, brother, or 54-year-old author friend who enjoys baseball and cooking. It’s called networking, my dear. Do it, or forever hold your vibrator.