Stop Sleeping with Powerful Men

powerYes, I’m talking to you, sexy ladies. You criticize men for being shallow when selecting mates. We are, absolutely. In fact, we can’t override our instincts with logic when sex is involved. Guilty. But, as immature as we are, men rarely sleep with a woman based on her social standing or perception thereof. I can’t get my dick hard for an unattractive billionaire, CEO, or mayor. Not possible.

Am I wrong? Have you ever slept with a man you did not consider sufficiently attractive when you first met him to straddle his privates? He talked your jeans off. His watch, clothes, car, home, or job title popped button after button until you found yourself on your back trying to justify it in your mind while the slug breathed heavily on your neck.

You created our president elect.

Some will see this as a jealous rant by a dirty old man who is losing his grip on sexy young things. Fair enough. Like I said, my biology sends me toward the healthiest mate to spread my genes. It’s natural—ewy, at times, but natural. Just like it is also natural for women to seek the best provider and protector. The problem is, whereas my nature may create some embarrassed ladies with low self-esteem and daddy issues, your nature just elevated someone who is expressly and absolutely against most of your interests into the ultimate position of power.

That really sucks. If you don’t realize it yet, you will.

Take Cheeto Mussolini’s wife. If she were single, visiting the states, and the bartender was a seventy-year-old blowhard with a horrible comb over and spray tan, what are the chances she would hook up with him? Um, fucking zero. No chance, no way, no how. If she so much as flirted with him, her besties would pull her away from the bar, slap some sense into her, and force her to drink lattes until she sobered up.

Come on, ladies, you worked so hard to get closer to equal footing with man-apes. Are you ready to roll back all that progress for a beast bearing gifts? Please tell me otherwise.

If you voted for Trump, you made a mistake. It’s like when you slept with your friend’s father who was twenty years older with a gray, hairy back and tube socks in leather mandals. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe you were mad at someone, drunk, high, or feeling vulnerable because Sean left you for that slut five years younger than you. Whatever the reason, you did it, and you regret it. Well, regret is not enough. You sold your soul to the tangerine tiny-handed crypt keeper. Now, you had better buy your soul back or get used to pussy grabbin’.

“How do we repent?” you ask. Look, if I sleep with a woman who shouldn’t have slept with me, I shrug it off proudly. Her lack of taste hurts me and my brothers not. I may even shine my nails on my chest and boast to the swine about my concubine. You, ladies, need to own it as well. Admit to yourself and your friends (fuck, post it on Facebook) that you mistakenly marginalized yourself due to your genetic attraction toward power. Then, vow to fight that urge and unfuck us all before powerful men grow stronger and hasten the apocalypse.

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