She keeps making you wear a condom
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know how good it feels? Doesn’t she know that the pill is like 99% effective and your skin is oh-so-baby-smooth (that’s a crusty freckle)?
Chicks love babies. Babies are made from unprotected drunken sex. Tell her you’re not ready for a baby but you want to know what it feels like to have a baby. Tell her you want to name the fake baby “Skyler James.” That condom will become an afterthought once she’s turned on by the “interesting baby name” role play. If her pill doesn’t work, and she gets pregnant just tell her you want to do a new role play called “Drug Store Field Trip.”
She keeps saying “no butt stuff”
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know how long it takes you to get off? Doesn’t she know that the male GSpot is in her anus?
Tell her that you’ve heard her fart once and that it’s a problem that can be fixed.
She keeps having ex-boyfriends
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know that once you break up with someone they should literally disappear? Doesn’t she understand that if you see an Ex in public that you should act like an adult and ignore them? Didn’t she know that at some point she’d meet the one man that can make ALL of her lips quiver with enjoyment?
Here’s the plan: Every time she interacts with an Ex stamp your feet then cry a lot so she takes you seriously.
She keeps asking “What are we?”
Mothaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know you hate being labeled? I mean, except for the six dozen nicknames your buddies have for you (i.e. “Toilet Water,” “Gay Sam,” “Colonel Labias,” “Penile Rage.” “Cuddles.” etc.). Can’t she understand that a Facebook relationship status is a gamekiller?
Here’s what you say: “You know what I think we are? Collections of vibrating atoms and quarks and strings cosmically dancing the kind of waltz that makes humanity; simple in conception, miraculous in execution. This joy, this pain, this time is so fleeting, so perfect in its imperfections; so sad that in death it ends, yet death is what gives it majesty. And you dare limit that experience with earthly titles? The simple rules of simple creatures define your day? Let’s not define. Let’s Live. So, let’s throw off our societal shackles and 69. But hold on, I just ate a bunch of Doritos, let me wash off my hands.” Problem solved.
She keeps texting
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know you got a whole day of smoking weed planned? Doesn’t she understand that the answer to “Hey waz up?” is always going to be “Hangin Biaatch,” so we can stop with the subtleties and get straight to the 2 am meet up spot?
Don’t text her back. I know it’s a crazy strategy, but if you say something like, “maybe we can meet up later,” this may as well read, “I will bleed for you,” to an emotionally defunct, possibly ovulating female. To her, hope is MORE than hope; it’s a guarantee. Stop feeling bad and do the right thing, like perhaps fake your death on Facebook. If you give her the tiniest bit of rope, she'll figure out how to make it into a noose and hang you. (Sidenote: If you’re the type of Dude who enjoys PRETENDING that you have a crazy chick but is actually stringing someone along as a ploy to invent yourself as containing a dick somewhere on your person. You are not looking for advice, you’re looking for high-fives. They will not be granted.)
She’s pissed you’ve blown her off after a one night stand
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know that you got this big ole (not really, more like medium but it’s still been described as “kinda pretty good”) dong and it’s gots to get off? Did she think that she was going to marry the guy she met at the “Golf Pros Tennis Hoes” party? How would you tell the kids such a thing? “I told Mommy she was an ‘Ace’ and the rest was history.”
Last you checked (you haven’t checked recently), that sex was consensual, as evidenced by her saying in a breathy whisper during a moment of passion, “Do you have a condom?” Of course you didn’t. But you knew damn well she had a big old box of those bad boys. And now she, the woman with the Sam’s Club pack of condoms, is now mad at you for treating a one-night-stand as a one-night-stand. Let her be enraged at the non-existent social contract she thought you signed. Ignore. She’ll rope in some other cowboy before long. (Be warned, if you do sleep with her again, in her mind, you're dating, even if you've never seen each other sober or in the light of day.)
She keeps calling you to hang out, but you never hook up
Motthaf*ckawhatthaf*ck? Doesn’t she know that you like her? Doesn’t she know that you went to that pregame to see her and NOT because her friend kept replaying Kelly Clarkson’s new jam? Doesn’t she know you don’t want to be her f*cking friend?
Here’s something we don’t consider enough: we drive women crazy, and they act like we drive them crazy, because we are “dicks” to them. We are direct, opaque, unyielding in our belief that we don’t want to be their boyfriend. We are men, obsessed with sex, obsessed with visual stimuli and yet women act as if none of these natural facts exist. We are the Romantic Comedy MEN OF THEIR DREAMS. But that’s just it, isn’t it? A dream? A lie? A fantasy. And we, as men, have the gall to tell them exactly that. How dare we? But I have to ask: do men drive women crazy? Or are they at fault when that little-girl’s princess fantasy doesn’t quite work out after a one-night-stand and a morning blowjob? This isn’t an indictment of women, and I think most grown women know all this, but there is a subset of female that won’t give it up. And they are the ones that suffer through unreturned phone calls and unrequited crushes.
So what about when the tables are turned? When a man can’t shake the thought of a particular woman? When he texts and she always responds? But she’s just not that interested. Generally, the nobility of being told straight out isn’t afforded in those situations. Because women don’t like to tell you what you don’t want to hear, or maybe they like the attention. But they string you along, they’re nice to you, and they wouldn’t dare offend you. And so you can sit at home and wonder and ache. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be the right thing to do. Somehow, being a “dick” seems far more appropriate and kind. Somehow, women really do seem a little crazy. So let’s just all 69 and forget about it.
Jared Freid is a New York City-based comedian. You can follow him on Twitter @jtrain56 for videos, columns, and more ideas of how to get your girl to do butt stuff.
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