Friday, July 22, 2011

OKCupid: You should message me if: part 2

I canceled my drinks with (REDACTED). Even though I like (REDACTED) and would totally enjoy hanging out with her. She is– she took me to a museum once. She is really smart. She knows a lot about art and literature and stuff. And I think she kind of had the hots for me. See, why couldn’t I date someone like that? A chick who went to Harvard and has her shit together and knows who fucking Albrecht Dürer is and can distinguish between different phases of his career. Who knows who Lucas Cranach the Elder is. Someone who has a finely tuned taste for the works of various Northern Renaissance engravers, is what I need. Someone who can tell apart multiple different interpretations of works by Claude Debussy. Who can hear the orchestral version of some Claude Debussy shit and know that it was orchestrated by Maurice Ravel, or whoeverthefuck. Who legitimately enjoys these things. Someone who knows about plants and animals. Hummingbirds. Insects.

But I also need someone who who grew up in a trailer getting molested and yet still thinks child molestation jokes are funny. Someone whose sister once blew a guy for Insane Clown Posse tickets. Someone who has family members in jail. Who has cousins that are fundamentalist Christians who hate gays and post caricatures of Obama on facebook. Who has relatives that listen to Rush Limbaugh. Someone who has been on food stamps. But also is interested in Claude Debussy. Who can get really excited about Rachmaninoff’s weird but perfect interpretations of Bach, how much more alive they are… but also someone who is familiar with the works of Kenny Rogers.

And it would help if it were someone who has absolutely perfect bone structure– the face of a six year old white child– and is not too fat. Although, by “too fat,” you know, my definition is surprisingly lenient. But someone who enjoys playing Dungeons and Dragons. Someone who has done heroin, but never shot it up. Someone who has smoked crack. But is not too old. Not over 25 preferably. Someone who doesn’t expect me to have money.

I need an extremely good looking chick ten years younger than me who is as smart and knowledgeable as someone who was raised by eccentric Swarthmore professors with old money who drive a maroon Volvo 240 “brick” with a ski rack on top and a Choate Rosemary Hall sticker across the back windshield, but who fucks on the first date like her dad is a welder with blurry tattoos who can easily put down a 24 pack of Schlitz. If she even knows who her dad is. Surprisingly, this is really, really hard to find.

OKCupid: You should message me if: part 2

I canceled my drinks with (REDACTED). Even though I like (REDACTED) and would totally enjoy hanging out with her. She is– she took me to a museum once. She is really smart. She knows a lot about art and literature and stuff. And I think she kind of had the hots for me. See, why couldn’t I date someone like that? A chick who went to Harvard and has her shit together and knows who fucking Albrecht Dürer is and can distinguish between different phases of his career. Who knows who Lucas Cranach the Elder is. Someone who has a finely tuned taste for the works of various Northern Renaissance engravers, is what I need. Someone who can tell apart multiple different interpretations of works by Claude Debussy. Who can hear the orchestral version of some Claude Debussy shit and know that it was orchestrated by Maurice Ravel, or whoeverthefuck. Who legitimately enjoys these things. Someone who knows about plants and animals. Hummingbirds. Insects.

But I also need someone who who grew up in a trailer getting molested and yet still thinks child molestation jokes are funny. Someone whose sister once blew a guy for Insane Clown Posse tickets. Someone who has family members in jail. Who has cousins that are fundamentalist Christians who hate gays and post caricatures of Obama on facebook. Who has relatives that listen to Rush Limbaugh. Someone who has been on food stamps. But also is interested in Claude Debussy. Who can get really excited about Rachmaninoff’s weird but perfect interpretations of Bach, how much more alive they are… but also someone who is familiar with the works of Kenny Rogers.

And it would help if it were someone who has absolutely perfect bone structure– the face of a six year old white child– and is not too fat. Although, by “too fat,” you know, my definition is surprisingly lenient. But someone who enjoys playing Dungeons and Dragons. Someone who has done heroin, but never shot it up. Someone who has smoked crack. But is not too old. Not over 25 preferably. Someone who doesn’t expect me to have money.

I need an extremely good looking chick ten years younger than me who is as smart and knowledgeable as someone who was raised by eccentric Swarthmore professors with old money who drive a maroon Volvo 240 “brick” with a ski rack on top and a Choate Rosemary Hall sticker across the back windshield, but who fucks on the first date like her dad is a welder with blurry tattoos who can easily put down a 24 pack of Schlitz. If she even knows who her dad is. Surprisingly, this is really, really hard to find.

Friday, July 15, 2011

OKCupid: Fatties

You know how it is. Lotta fatties on the OKC. Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.— your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat.

Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city. These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.

“Curvy” means fat. Not a chick with big boobs and a big ass but otherwise reasonably fit proportions, as a reasonable layman would expect it to mean. “Curvy” means “I am fat but I have big tits. And I don’t want to be lumped in with these inferior small titted fatties, and besides when guys look at me they don’t see ‘fat,’ they see ‘tits,’ so the defining feature of my physical being is tits and I’m gonna put ‘curvy.’” “Curvy” also has the advantage of seeming more erotic, like “voluptuous.” “Curvy“ is a fat girl who will give you doe eyes in a bar and suck your dick on the first date. There’s a sub class of “curvy” who purport to be the reasonable layman’s definition of “curvy,” and they always have a big paragraph about how “CURVY DOES NOT MEAN ‘FAT’ IT MEANS I HAVE BIG BOOBS AND A BIG BUTT AND I AM NOT LIKE ALL THE OTHER FAT ‘CURVY’ GIRLS ON HERE,” which, I bet if you showed up to a date with these girls, they would be fat. There are also fat girls with small tits who say “curvy,” which-- get the fuck out of here. By the way, fat girls with small tits—God. You must have torched a village in a past life.

And let’s not even get into what a cruel joke the word “few” in “a few extra pounds” is. And “athletic,” and “fit,” which through sad experimentation I have learned both mean a fat chick with muscle under her fat, not the lean vegan Pilates instructor build you’d think “fit” meant for an eighteen to thirty five year old woman in Los Angeles. So, unless it says “thin,” the girl is going to be fat.

And even “thin—“ I bet the dishonesty creep that internet dating causes, you know, everybody exaggerating just a little bit and then everybody else has to exaggerate just a little bit more to compete— so that by the time my son is dating on the holographic cybernetic implant internet, all women will be “thin” and all men will be nine feet tall and earning six billion dollars a year-- I bet this means that a lot of girls who describe themselves as “thin” are in fact fat. Because they are again comparing themselves to the national average which is heavily weighted down by fifty five year old women with eight grandkids who work at the Hormel factory and get to bring home factory-irregular packages of spam and chili which they then gnaw on while watching Ron Popeil roaster infomercials late into the night. They are slightly below this national average so therefore they must be “thin.” Or they were thin once. They were thin once and gained weight but “thin” is still their concept of themselves, which, the evidence is right there-- just look at all my photos from 2005; I am “thin.” I bet a lot of the time when you message a thin girl and she shows up for the first date she's fat. Although I don’t know for sure since a thin girl has never messaged me back.

So there’s a lot of fat chicks.

And look man, I don’t need to tell you that when you’re trying to get a date, being fat is a pretty big fucking deal. Obviously I’m focusing on women here but for the guys, too—I know there’s this idea that you’re constantly seeing fat bald schlubs walking around with chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel, and that for men appearance isn’t that important and etc. etc. But this is bullshit. I only ever see chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel walking around with guys with button noses and lantern jaws, and less than ten per cent body fat. Guys who look like Casper Van Dien and are built like champion kick boxers and had a seven episode arc on some CW show. Those are the guys who are pulling that waitress who when she briefly placed her hot palm on your shoulder when presenting the check you felt like-- you felt a tickly feeling like the first time you ever jacked off and thought you were some secret genius who had invented it.

So being fat matters; it is a big deal, and you know, dating is a big deal. I have a career type job, many friends, a delightful pet cat, and rewarding hobbies, but still-- all I ever think about is: how am I gonna meet women? Dating is a big deal. So why do you allow yourself to hold on to this massive disadvantage in this most important area of life? There’s some things you can’t change, obviously—I for one have a face that looks like it was severely damaged with a piece of farm equipment, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But you better god damn believe I have meaty pectorals with what appears to be a zipper zigzagging down between them, and visible obliques, and a fingery lattice of muscle crisscrossing over my ribs when I lift my arms above my head, and different muscle groups kind of elbowing each other out of the way when I flex my ass in the mirror, which I often do. And biceps with a peak on them, and etc. etc. All of this covered with a solid but not Jersey-Shore-ostentatious fake tan to highlight the contrast between these various chiseled muscles.

And I have bought these things with great pain because dating is fucking important. Finding a mate to spend the rest of your motherfucking life with is important. And sad as it may be, people are fucking shallow.

But maybe, for the fattie, getting into the best possible shape isn’t a matter of merely going to the gym and just sucking up the hours of agony and tedium. Maybe for a fat chick the parallel is, like— for me, I hate my job where I spend ten hours per day; I am generally self-loathing, I have never traveled, and I have accomplished nothing of worth, ever. And maybe my asking them “why are you so fat” isn’t like asking “why don’t you just go to the gym?” Maybe it’s like asking me: "why are you so broke? Why are you so mean? Why are you so miserable? Why don’t you just get your fucking life together and use your talents to do something you love, and maybe you wouldn’t hate yourself.” Maybe changing their body in this way is a complex, difficult, life-changing process involving deep and painful self examination. Maybe it’s a shattering of one’s world so huge that you look at the distance between here and there and don’t even know where to begin.

Or maybe they just think someone will be able to look past their looks and see inside to the beautiful person they truly are. Which-- fucking come on, man.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

More OKCupid: Eighteen to thirty-five

I had to change my “looking for” ages from 18-35 to 24-35. I had to change it because 19 year old girls stopped messaging me once I admitted I was looking for them. Back when it was originally like 27-33 I used to get a ton of messages from women way under this age range, and I went out with them. And I had a fucking great time. So I changed my age range to honestly reflect this. All correspondence with these girls immediately dried up.

Before this, I’d had to increase the upper limit from 29 to 35, because every response I got to an email clearly indicated that the person thought I was a dirtbag. I had thought I was being kind of rakishly uncaring about societal mores or whatever and this brazen I-don’t–give-a-shit honesty would get me points, you know. Because it seemed like every other time I wrote something dickish on my profile, thinking I was pushing the limits of how much of a dick you could be, it only resulted in a huge uptick of messages from hot younger women. So I thought this dickish 18-29 only move would do that as well. But shit dried up.

So this is one thing you can’t be honest about. It’s kind of a pain in the ass because your little sliding row of thumbnails on your home page and your “you might likes” are suddenly filled with “35 year olds” who are clearly 35 in Jupiter years. But it’s the price you gotta pay. Because while 19 year olds don’t seem to have any qualms about dating a 35 year old, they have serious qualms about dating a 35 year old who says he likes 19 year olds.

Well look: I like 19 year olds. So does every other man on the planet; this is news to no one. Let me take it a step further and say: I like 15 year olds. I like 13 year olds. Usually guys who admit this then launch into a long apologia about how girls are sexually mature at that age and it’s NATURAL to want to mate with them when they’re capable of producing viable healthy offspring and etc etc. I hadn’t even thought it through this far— 13 year old girls just give me a huge boner and I’m not going to fucking apologize for it. I don’t care if it’s natural or not. Lots of things are “natural;” genocide is probably natural. But, you know, I’m never gonna fuck a thirteen year old. I remember what I was like at that age and if some dude had fucked me in the ass I’d still be carrying it around in some dark corner of my soul and making thousands of tiny cuts on my arms just so I could feel something, etc. So I’d never act on this, but, I regularly beat off to it.

Anyway, the closest I’m going to get to this base desire to fuck underage girls is the 19 year old community college student who either really really likes or really really doesn’t like her father, or he just wasn’t around in general, and so she seeks out someone like myself who has a couple wiry white hairs sprouting out around his temples and crinkles up like Luke Perry when he smiles. But he’s still just barely young enough that it doesn’t feel like you’re going to have to sit through his story about fleeing the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

I tell girls my own age about this predilection, and they’re always like “Jesus, what do you talk to them about?” I don’t know, dude-- what do I talk to you about? I go on dates with 33 year olds too, and let me tell you: they’re not finally explaining quantum mechanics to me in a way I can grasp. The 33 year olds I date off OKC are pretty much exactly like the 19 year olds-- they’ll laugh at your jokes and kind of build on them but rarely take the conversation in a new direction themselves or make you laugh. You get in their car and some fucking Lady Gaga comes on the stereo, just like she if was 19. It’s not like the 33 year old is going to pleasantly surprise me with some remasterd recording of Rachmaninoff playing Bach, and marvel with me about the expressive tone this motherfucker gets out of a piano, which I’d heretofore not thought was an instrument capable of such, you know, colors… and maybe even Rachmaninoff would supplant Glenn Gould as the foremost keyboard interpreter of Bach in my mind because of the CD this chick popped in in her 1997 Volvo. No, she’s playing lady Gaga just like every other retard.

The only difference is the 33 year old is suddenly very picky about her mate selection and makes you want to jump through a bunch of hoops. She is looking at you with this figurative jeweler’s loupe giving you all kinds of scrutiny about every little fucking thing, trying to determine your viability as dating material, instead of just relaxing and getting drunk and having a good fucking time like the 19 year old is. Plus, you get that 19 year old naked and god motherfucking damn, you know?

And also, with a 33 year old I’m guilty of this jeweler’s loupe thing, too. When I go out with women my own age, suddenly it becomes about looking for wife material. Suddenly I’m judging them by this impossible standard of: they better show me that they’re witty and brilliant and you know, at the end of that one ninety minute date with that 33 year old I better walk out of there feeling suddenly alive and like my heart has been reawakened to the possibility of connecting with another human being on a deep soulful level, etc. I cut women over thirty exactly zero slack about not being funny, for instance. Or about being even slightly uptight over my admittedly vulgar and unseemly behavior.

I don’t know why this is. I don’t know why I am perfectly accepting of a 19 year old telling me she dates a lot of guys in bands, but I think oh OF COURSE, you fucking whore! when the 33 year old tells me she’s sick of dating guys in bands. Of course, now that you’re losing your looks and guys in bands suddenly don’t want to date YOU, now you’re ‘sick’ of them. I don’t know why women over thirty get the full laser beam of my bitter misogynistic judgement and the teenagers are spared. But whatever. I like young girls, so sue me.

Everybody thinks

it's so easy for everybody else.

I was at a party. A party full of gays. Me and a gay guy were talking about dating, and he said something to the effect of: "well it must be great for you, because you're a straight guy in LA. You can get whatever you want whenever you want."

WHAT THE FUCK????!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Does this guy not know? Has he not seen every single party and bar and restaurant and grocery store line, ever, in Los Angeles? There is never an attractive enough to fuck girl ever, and if there is she has a boyfriend, or there are three of them and 10,000 guys, or there is one by herself but she is creeped out at the prospect of even looking at you. And of course he's never been on one of these online dates where it seemed like it was going pretty good until you went for the makeout halfway in and she turned her fucking cheek toward you, because it turns out she is new to online dating and hasn't yet gotten the memo about how the plan is we show up, we drink, we fuck. She thinks it's going to be some old-timey courtship from the antebellum South where maybe you get a kiss on the third date if her chaperone nods off after a mint julep on the porch, and then I high five the slaves on my way out.

Anyway, yeah, he thought it was easy. Like there are so many desperate attractive single women out there that they should just be falling into my lap-- which they should be, in a just world. But of course not. And I thought-- I mean, he's gay. There's a reason all the billboards in my neighborhood say "DRINK THIS BEER" or "SEE THIS MOVIE," and all the ones in his say "GO GET TESTED FOR AIDS AND HEP C." l thought you guys just looked a stranger in the eye, maybe shook hands, and then went and fucked rawdog up against a urinal. I thought all gay men fucked all other gay men, that they lived in a world where everybody could just acknowledge that they're horny and, you know, everybody could just fuck. And they all hang out together and there's tons of fresh meat being pumped into the social circle at all times, fresh young boys coming to LA to get away from their overbearing Iowa sheriff father constantly telling them they're going to Hell. I thought the gays had it easy.

But of course they don't. Because where I see tons of dudes between the ages of eighteen and twenty nine down to fuck at all times, they see bald, or pudgy, or stupid, or annoying. They see pain in the ass queens who listen to Lady Gaga, which even some gays will agree with me is novelty music for retarded children. When they go to the grocery store they see that all the guys are straight, or the gay ones are fat, or have boyfriends, or can't hold up their end of the conversation or etc etc. And so in this sea of oversized eligible cock they see nothing. We both see LA as the same dry hole, requiring us to claw out a piss-trickle of muddy silt to slake our sad desperate needs.

And they see tons of chicks around them, but they aren't seeing them with a discriminating eye, because if gay guys could tell what's beautiful we wouldn't have gangly freaks with collarbones like pterodactyls in all our magazines. So they see tons of chicks, and they're not looking for signs that the girl has a boyfriend; they don't hear it get dropped in the first sentence of conversation; they don't see that these girls are just bland useless dishonest pains in the ass, because they're not paying attention. To him who doesn't want pussy, the universe is swimming in pussy.

And it must be like that for girls too. Because they see their friends who can't get dates and you know, they're eligible, right? Only the most jaded and hardhearted girls can see that their friends are fat boring whores. So they must think there's this giant glut of great pussy out there, because hey, she's single, I'm single. And they don't see the same masive tsunami of cock I see when I go out because they're only seeing the guys they give a shit about. Not the short guys, the bald guys, the shy guys, the unfashionable guys-- those guys are invisible to them. They can walk into a bar that's 90 per cent male and say "there are no guys here!'

I wonder if I do the same thing. Are there women all around me and I don't notice them. Women who-- like, I say I want a girl who can make a snappy comeback, who knows about all kinds of nature and literature and shit, but what I really mean is: I want a girl who is like that but who is also under 25 and has big tits. I want a girl who is like that but also has pretty eyes and a small nose and doesn't take antidepressants and basically has no shortcomings but I want her to have the perspicacity to see past my shortcomings. Because I'm so god damn fucking special. Like when women say they want a guy who is kind, spiritual and smart, what they mean is a guy who is over five feet ten who is these things. Or better say five feet eleven because guys lie. I want a guy with a job I can tell my friends about who is these things. I want a guy who is not bald who is these things. That's why this big city thing kind of sucks, you have so many options, you know, you just whittle them down until they seem to be nothing.

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: how to be attractive to women

(REDACTED) asks:

Long time lurker, first time poster. Needless to say, I love your writing. My question is, "As a guy, what should I do short-term and long-term to increase my attractiveness to the opposite sex?" Please answer the converse question about what a woman can do to increase her attractiveness. Don't give obvious answers like "hit the gym."

Well, look, do hit the gym. Don’t forget how shallow women are, in case you think they’re not. Women are great about systematically lying to themselves and everyone else about everything, and they have this collective con set up where we think they care most about confidence, personality, etc. Women and men are much more alike in shallowness than people seem to think-- women like a chiseled jaw, a small nose, pumpkinseed shaped deltoids, visible obliques, etc. etc. The standards for an attractive male body are much more exacting than they are for women. You better have less than ten per cent body fat, which is physically not so tough but psychologically impossible to maintain unless you take speed. But get close. Do hit the gym. Make yourself look as good and stylish as you possibly can.

And then there’s the whole other part. Things having to do with extroversion and self-assurance and etc., which all boils down to: the way to be attractive to women is to already be fucking other women. I get that it’s kind of hard to separate cause and effect here-- maybe the guys who are fucking other women are just intrinsically more attractive, but— I don’t know, I’m gonna get religious here for a second: I really do believe they can “smell it on you.” Walk into a party with a hot chick and walk in solo and see the difference in the way other women treat you. Just like you have to have seed money to get rich, you have to already be getting laid to get laid.

So, if you’re not getting laid, what do you do? Basically you are starting out as a panhandler with nothing and you have to work your way up to being Bill Gates- what the fuck do you do? Well, step one is handled: get on the internet. Internet dating is the greatest invention of all time— better than the wheel, the internal combustion engine, fusion, etc. Fusion never got me any ass. Get on the internet and start by fucking a couple women who are less attractive than you.

Just like you have to go on a couple “warm up “ interviews for shitty jobs you don’t want before going after the big one, you have to have the date-to-fuck process down by rote before you can go after an actually attractive woman. Go find a girl with an acceptable but not scary-hot picture and profile, shoot her an email, get the phone #, etc. Don’t ever half ass the email; don’t use a form letter, even if you think you’re going bottom-of-the-barrel. Every element of this process is practice. First email is a two or three sentence wisecrack; she’ll email back continuing your same joke. Second email ignore what she says and ask for the phone number. Phone call, shoot the shit for ten minutes and set up the date.

Take her to a place near your apartment that serves red wine, and have a bottle on the table when she gets there. Get there early and have the chairs arranged so she has to sit perpendicular to you-- this is unbelievably important. I have never once had success when the girl is sitting across from me. Go to a place with no music, or soft music, so there are no distractions from your enthralling anecdotes delivered in a rich soothing baritone not unlike that of Walter Cronkite.

You should smoke cigarettes occasionally. If you don’t smoke, you better start, because moving the girl away from the table is key to your makeout move. You should have selected girls who smoke, or smoke occasionally, or smoke “when drinking—“ girls who never smoke are much less likely to fuck you. First cigarette break is 20-30 minutes in; lead her out by the arm to the sidewalk and just shoot the shit a little more. You can break a touch barrier here- get her to lean into you when she’s laughing at something.

Second cigarette break is when you go for the makeout. Just look at her, lean in, and kiss her, regardless of what’s going on with the cigarettes. This almost always results in a hot, passionate semi-public makeout, and if it doesn’t you have no shot and never did. Then break it off after a few minutes and head back to the table and sit down and talk like it never happened. But, now that you are smartly sitting perpendicular to her, you can kind of slip your knee in between her thighs a little. She will put her hot palm on your leg. You have a very strong possibility of a first date lay at this point.

When the wine is gone, ask where she parked and walk her back to her car. At some point you are just going to come out and ask “you want to come back with me?” No preamble, no hedging, no hesitating and filibustering when you are obviously going to ask this question. Just say it. It can be before or after further making out, but just say it. If it’s a no, keep making out with her. But don’t ask her to come back again. Keep making out and get in her car with her and odds are you will have a crazy junior high hookup where your dick will be out in a parked car under a streetlight and you’re praying that a cop doesn’t come by. Also, if it’s a no, get a second date, which is you cooking dinner at your house. Tell her you’re roasting a chicken on Sunday. Her saying “yes” to this is guaranteed ass.

So that’s getting laid, and getting laid is what makes you attractive. But in terms of getting women to like you for who you are and want to be in a relationship with you- how the fuck would I know?

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: How to suck a dick

"Anonymous" writes:

I don't have any specific questions about sex, but I suspect lots of people would appreciate advice/instructions from both of you on how to...do stuff well.

Personally I want blow job advice and general advice like sounds and stuff.

Help us internet loners out.


All right. How to give a blowjob.

1) Eat the fucking cum.

Just fucking eat it. I was getting blown just recently, actually, and as soon as I started actually popping off the girl pulled her head back, aghast, and left me to nut unstimulated into my own navel. This woman was thirty two years old. An actress/ waitress. Unless she is some weird prudish aberration, she has sucked a lot of dicks. She has had a lot of cum shot in her mouth. But she pulled her head back—which means she was the kind of girl who, in college, would look you in the eye as she was about to go down and suck your dick and say “tell me if you’re about to cum, OK?” OK. They’re never saying that so they can suddenly enhance the experience by giving you an even better blowjob just as you are about to bust that sublime nut-- it’s always so they can squeamishly pull away at the last second. So they can switch from a delightful blowjob to a halfhearted and insulting handjob, because they have a girlish revulsion from “gross” things like the fluid they are trying to suck out of your dick.

Just eat the fucking cum. I don’t know why I even care about this-- when I’m watching porn and jacking off, for instance, the instant the first drop of jizz leaves my dick I am instantaneously disgusted by the hideous lube-shiny nuts waving in the camera flopping around outside some starlet’s bleached, distended asshole. But for some reason a blowjob is the only time you care what happens after you ejaculate. Even if you take it in your mouth and then get that distressed look and hurry out to spit it in the sink- no. That is half-assing it. Maybe it’s not so much part of the sexual experience. Maybe I’m just disappointed in you.

But don’t show it to me—don’t like burble it around on your tongue and look in my eyes and smile, either. This is like the sniveling office worker who’s always piping up for credit to his boss with every mundane accomplishment. Just eat it, silently, without fanfare, like it’s something you’re expected to do and you accept and while you might not be happy about it, it’s like paying the bills. Just eat the fucking cum.

2) Stay away from my urethra.

This kind of falls under the larger heading of “stay away from fancy shit.” Don’t do that tongue butterfly thing, and especially don’t do it around my dickhole. Don’t do anything around my dickhole, ever. Don’t touch my dickhole, don’t think about my dickhole, don’t make eye contact with my dickhole—a lot of girls will want to showily flick their tongue around because they’ve seen it in porn. On the rest of your dick, this feels like nothing, and then ninety nine percent of the time the tip of their tongue will slightly part the little slit at the tip of your helmet and suddenly feel like you’re getting catheterized. Don’t lick around my dick except at the very beginning, where you are saucily communicating that “I am about to give you a blowjob.” Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it. Which brings us to:

3) Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it.

Girls love to get their hands involved in the blowjob. They love doing that twisty handjob thing with your dick all wet from spit, and yes, this actually feels pretty good as long as a good part of your dick is also in their mouth. But they also love taking frequent breaks from actually sucking the dick and looking up at you and smiling while still doing that stupid twisty handjob—and they think this is a substitute for continuously sucking the dick. It is not. It is transparent laziness, like an employee who takes a coffee break every fifteen minutes. Ultimately I don’t give a shit what you are doing or not doing with your hands- you have no idea how to handle a dick manually and you never will. I cannot get my dick in my own mouth, and that is what I need you for.

4) Stay away from my balls.

I was reading some dude’s memoir about a gay experience in his youth. Two fourteen year old dudes rolling around playing Atari or something and the one guy reached into the writer’s pants, and he said something like “he touched my balls with a tenderness that only a man would have. Because only a man understands how sensitive your balls are.” Which, yes. You cannot understand.

I mean, go ahead and do that tongue flicking thing that feels like nothing on my balls. But don’t put them in your mouth. Don’t you dare come anywhere near them with your hands. You have no fucking idea what pain balls are capable of, with even the slightest misstep. I don’t care if you’ve given birth, had third degree burns over ninety per cent of your body, had a compound fracture with your thighbone sticking out and then a hyena came and chewed on it and his tongue was made of fire ants—you have no fucking idea. Playing with my balls is like playing with nitro glycerine, and will turn shit from hot to trauma at the flick of a switch. Playing with balls, you have the tiger by the tail. You are flying too close to the sun. Etc. Don’t do it.

So what should you do? I don’t fucking know. Open your mouth real wide so your teeth don’t drag, suck the dick as firmly as you can, and move your head in a rhythmic motion up and down. If you can’t sustain this for a long period of time, jump on top of the guy and fuck him. Nothing else really has any effect-- none of this tongue shit, this hand shit-- when you are sucking a dick, you should be sucking a fucking dick. If you can’t do that, you better learn a musical instrument.

Old News: Arnold (originally posted 5/26/11)

I'm gonna weigh in on this Arnold Schwarzenegger thing. Even though it's been done to death. Because it's actually real simple. Women's web sites are of course saying what a pig and how could he cheat on her, etc. And reactionary sexist sites for men focus on how could he do it with someone so ugly. The latter group has to come up with these baroque explanations of why he would want to bone a woman who was not as hot as his wife.

It doesn't fucking matter. Hot, not hot-- does not matter. What matters is new pussy. Preferably new pussy that is as different from the old pussy you've been halfheartedly fucking with your flagging chub as possible. If I am dating an Aryan supermodel, I want to be fucking an elderly black midget.

And also, new pussy that you are forced to be around. New pussy that is just there. I have interns where I work.They are hired on the basis of their qualifications, not their physical attributes. Sometimes they show up for their first day and they're piping hot, sometimes I'd rather stick my dick in some bioluminescent sea predator from the fucking Marianna Trench. But still-- ten hours a day spent in a room with these girls-- eventually, I am going to end up beating off to every single one of them on a daily basis. The hot ones, it happens on day one, but even the gnarly barnyard sows, eventually it gets to where as soon as my briefcase handle drops out of my hand at home it is replaced with my dick, and I'm taking two seconds to nut over the thought of this beast bent over her desk. Because when you are forced to be around someone, just-- just the smell of them. Just... eventually they are going to bend over to pick up a box of copy paper and you are going to see the top inch and a half of their ass crack, and notice that it is unsullied by moles or hair. That it's actually quite a nice crescent of snowy white skin between the bottom of this girls's H & M designer knockoff professional dress shirt and the top of her jeans and.... God damn. God damn, I just want to fuck that ass. Eventually beating off to even my ugliest intern gets me off faster than porn with some modelesque chick on her eighteenth birthday.

This is because of the realism of the masturbatory scenario. Because it could happen. And that's what was going on with Arnold and his maid. He noticed that the sunlight when she bent over to water a plant or something, the sunlight was glancing off the top of her titties, and he could see just a little sliver of brown nipple. So different than Maria's, maybe a fat puffy nipple-- I picture Maria having those weird wormy long ones for some reason-- and he went back into his bedroom and popped one off, thinking about how it might happen. Maria takes the kids to soccer practice. Alone in the house; bump into the maid in the laundry room... and I bet he jacked off to this a million times before she made some kind of meaningful eye contact with him that said-- shall we? He beat off to it because it was there, and plausible, and then when he had a shot to actually make it happen, well-- it's really fucking hard to turn down the reality version of something you've beat off to a thousand times. It's like watching the director's cut of a movie you've seen a bunch-- you are entertained merely by noticing the differences.

And then he impregnated her. Of course Jezebel commenters and the like are barking at him for not using a condom-- really? Listen-- NOBODY FUCKING USES CONDOMS. No one. If you use condoms, you are the only fucking person on the planet and you are just torturing yourself and your partner because they're terrible. They make it feel like your dick is made of scar tissue.

And he nutted in her. Which, this is where Arnold and I part ways, because while I always beat off to the idea of nutting in a girl and making her pregnant, usually against her will, and while I am fucking chicks, which once again is always rawdog one hundred per cent of the time, I am thinking up until the very last microsecond that I am going to nut in her and impregnate her-- I ALWAYS pull out in time. I always have that last second of sex-ruining conscientiousness and pull out and sheepishly nut into my boxers. That last little bit of control which keeps me from truly enjoying any sexual experience.

I guess Arnold doesn't have that, which-- more power to him. If I had enough money to be blowing loads in maids and supporting the children secretly without even making a fucking dent in my checking account you better believe half the Earth would be covered in half Mexican dudes that look like me. If I had a wife who needed to keep her fucking mouth shut for a decade or risk losing everything, risk having to have one of those Eliot Spitzer press conferences where she sourly stands behind me-- if I had a wife that had to shut the fuck up, every piece of menial laborer pussy on the west coast would be fat with my young at all times.

Just saying.

To my future son

Never have a job you have to explain. Just like you should never have a Halloween costume you have to explain. Your whole life just becomes the same fucking conversation over and over.

Diary 5/9/11: an actress

I need to jack off, to that chick (REDACTED), whatever the fuck her name was. She showed up to dinner with (REDACTED)'s parents wearing dark gray yoga pants and when her legs hit the right angle you could see the outline of her vagina.

She is hot. Skinny, in good shape, perfect bone structure hot. In her youtube videos she looks merely “quirky hot,” like, her face looks a little fuller and her teeth look like a mouth full of jagged chiclets and she just, you know, looks like the kind of chick you would see across a room and think “that chick is kind of hot. Maybe I have a chance.”

Then in person it is clear she is the kind of chick with whom you have no chance. She has that sleek, lithe build like a lemur, or one of those whippet-looking marsupials that just went extinct-- the thyalacine. A thyalacine I want to fuck.

Actress. She is an actress. Not the witty type of actress whom I could latch on to with my superior intellect and impress, but rather, the laid back, into astrology and yoga type of actress, who is basically more primal about her mate selection. She will date a muscular, good looking dude who has a job tending bar at La Poubelle and rides a motorcycle. She’s one of this special L.A. class of people who has no job and is preposterously good looking and, lives, you know, I just picture that they hike, do yoga and fuck all day. They just have hot yoga sex with their perfectly lean bodies and perfect skin, and just the right amount of tan, and white, straight teeth, and perfect bone structure where you don’t have to loook past some flaw of theirs. There is no flaw. These people, they’re all broke so they live in houses with one another and conglomerate into huge social circles full of hot, underemployed people, who all meet each other easily and casually at parties and may not fuck right away but can see each other at a couple parties over the course of like a month and think “hey, that person is kind of hot, maybe I’ll get a chance to fuck that person one day.” And then, you know, that person breaks up with their boyfriend, or you end up talking to them so much at these parties that you can casually ask them out for a coffee-- these people can do a coffee date; they are free at three in the afternoon— and then go home while it’s still light out and have hot well-lit yoga sex admiring the other party’s perfect musculature and skin in the afternoon sunlight. These people are in the Serengetti of pussy. If you don’t get a chance with one wildebeest, another will come along. I am a crippled old mountain lion living alone on a cold, craggy mountaintop, and if one half-starved deer ever makes its way up to the barren snows I better jump on that shit immediately, for all it’s worth, because another deer might not be coming.

Why I Love Douches

I told a couple people to come to a pool party I'm going to at some Hollywood club. They said no, it would be "douchey."

This is accurate, but what people need to understand is that douches fuck. Douches dress like douches because there are girls that like to fuck douches, and girls who hang out with douches like to fuck. They don't like to read David Foster Wallace and discuss vegan restaurants; they like to fuck.

Things like education, high degree of literacy, political engagement, etc. etc., are all negatively correlated with fucking. The worse you were raised, the more you fuck. And a douche is just a working class or poorly-educated nouveau riche person in a large city, who ornaments himself in a way that will be most effective at getting him fucked. He is not preoccupied with obscure records or signing petitions to the Ugandan government or any of the other shit that these liberal arts types will belabor endlessly.

Douche chicks get drunk and fuck. They get hammered and pull their bikini bottoms to the side and let you slip it in rawdog in the pool, provided you have taken care to spend thousands of hours in the gym giving yourself pumpkinseed-shaped deltoids. So these are the people I would rather spend a Saturday with, by a factor of about one million billion, than a bunch of MFA candidate chicks who will not even look at you unless you have a huge enough beard to indicate that you could not possibly be employed and therefore must be in a semi-successful band, or that band's equipment manager. Some third-tier hanger-on of Sufjan Stevens. However you spell it.

Anyway. Give these douche parties a shot, is all I'm saying.