Used to be a time when a man simply had to stumble into a BYOB sushi restaurant on a Tuesday night and he’d leave with at least a dozen of the pinot-grigio guzzling women in there, having the only non-Asian cock that was within 100 feet. Recently, everyone’s caught on, and these Sushi restaurants look like “To Catch a Predator” reunions, with Bartles & Jaymes on the tables and goatees on the faces. Any woman that may still enjoy a California roll on a weekday is too creeped out to be interested in sex.
Nowadays, if you want the premium trim (I’m referring here to vagina that you can thrust your penis into) you’ve got to go all-you-can-eat, and there is something truly sensual about endless red meat and a salad bar. The way a man can just slowly, sexually turn that placard from “red” to “green” immediately plays into every woman’s fantasy of being seduced by the guy at the road construction crew who holds the sign (so…much…power…) and to see you keep your mouth just slightly ajar as you put two different meats in at the same time will get them all surfing in their seats. Plus, as they calmly drift into beef-induced comas, it will be harder to resist the temptation to give you their number, and maybe even their sweating, gassy bodies right there in the red vinyl booth. Brazilians are known for two things in this world: meat, and condomless sex; now you too can enjoy their finest delicacies.
The Play: “Accidentally” grab a female-target’s hand as you both reach for the dinner rolls at the buffet; Say, “Oh, I’m sorry, I mistook you for the choicest cut of meat in here.” And then chloroform her.
Women be shoppin! AmIright, Dudes?!!?!? There isn’t a place in the world that will be a better numbers game. Chicks walk in there and they turn into this hummingbird and they buzz around texting, smelling, playing – sometimes they’ll just twirl and laugh and throw a hat in the air. Don’t go in, just wait around outside. When they leave they are on such a hormonal high that you can smell her baby-maker. All you really have to do is be nice and she’ll fall head first into your pubes.
The Play: “Sephora was my Fiance’s favorite place to shop before the HPV. Now I just spend my time doing Susan G. Komen walks and eating brunch.” Watch her face as she publicly squirts.
Why? I know what you’re thinking. Nobody goes to a library anymore. We all got our I-Pads, kindles and small candle-making businesses. The only people hanging at libraries are homeless people and old women who haven’t heard about the Internet. Well you’re dead wrong, sir, because you know what else is at the library? “50 Shades of Grey,” and “Twilight,” and “The Hunger Games.” Females are a tricky species – where men get aroused from watching dicks enter multiple female mouths (preferably on a Viking ship), women like a little more subtlety. They like the suggested, just-bubbling-under-the-skin-sexuality of love triangles and forbidden romance. They want to be teased and teased and teased with absolutely no payoff (which is like a log flume with no splash). You need to show these babes you “get it.”
The Play: Find yourself in the Hunger Games aisle at the same time as some choice prey. Also, find yourself wearing a “Team Peeta” tee-shirt and say, “You know, I appreciate that Gale shares Katniss’s anger, but I don’t understand his bloodlust.” Then chloroform her.
You know two things: they aren’t virgins and they can make a tough decision.
The Play: “I’m not ready for anything serious either.”
I know what you’re thinking, the Internet? Obviously you’re going to get laid, but it’s usually by an old gym sock and not a smoking slam-dime. So how can you turn your predilection for Viking pornography into actual sex? Well, finish with the Viking sh*t first and then, during your 5 minute refractory period, check out a dating site that features real, live, human girls. Because you’ve just whacked it the most, you’ll be clear of mind to see these girls as they are – not as vehicles for breasts, but rather nice, caring, beautiful people. Use your new-found clarity to write up a little profile about yourself and put it out there. Luckily, you’ll probably finish that boring task right around the same time you get your sexual appetite back, so by the time someone buys into the idea that you might be a sweet and earnest individual, you’re ready to pounce – Viking hat at the ready.
The Play: “Hey, yeah, let’s meet for coffee.” Bring Chloroform.
Women Be Brunchin. Women Be Brunchin hard and on the reg. Two key reasons brunch is a wild jungle teeming with p*ssy ready to play (again, I’m referring to vagina, here – I know the reference was opaque): 1. There’s alcohol, and 2. They’re wounded.
First off, brunch is called “Brunch” because if it was called “breakfast” these women would be complete alcoholics. Every other word you’ll hear above the din of the restaurant will be “Mimosaaaaa!” (sometimes you’ll hear an occasional “Bellini” – stay away from these girls, they are succubus b*tches who hate America and dogs). Half these chicks will be three sheets by the time you approach, and they won’t even notice you’re wearing cargo shorts. Bone-town is the next stop on this train.
Secondly, the only two types of girls at brunch are those in committed relationships and The Others. The Others just got asked to leave an apartment by some stud who didn’t even text them until 3 in the morning. The Others are wearing the same clothes they wore last night. The Others are angry at themselves for being so cheap and eager. The Others just got done hearing about how their relationship-friends have to settle up now because they’re going to the farmer’s market with their fiancee. The Others are emotionally ragged and 2am-drunk by 2pm and they’ll think a guy wearing cargo shorts couldn’t possibly get laid that much and must be sweet and won’t ever break their heart. Your train just pulled into the station, my friend.
The Play: Say, “I always have such a hard time deciding between savory and sweet.” The chick will lose her mind. Then order another round of mimosas, aka nature’s chloroform.
Apple picking is the most ancient form of women exerting dominance over their mates. If a woman can get a man to an apple orchard with her on a fall (aka football) weekend, she’ll never have to worry about dating again because that complete p*ssy isn’t going anywhere. And every once in a great while, there will be a few single girls here that are so desperate to apple pick with a mate, they’ll show up anyway. Like girls who try on wedding dresses before they’re engaged, these women are so pathetically beyond desperate, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, if those fish were too emotionally scarred to try and avoid gunfire.
The Play: Leave the chloroform at home. You’ll need it in the morning when she tells you she thinks she’s in love with you.
I know, you’re thinking, “J-Train, how and why have you tapped into the deepest reaches of the female mind to bring us such cherished information?” And I can only respond by saying that every generation needs its Columbus, its Magellan – I’ve clearly scoured the Earth to find the most precious information. But what is discovery if it’s not shared? What is the whinny of a newborn foal if none are there to hear it? Who are we if we cannot sit around a shattered coffee table, hungover, sharing our most prized conquests from the night before? Who are we but men?
Women of the world, cower, for some of your most cherished secrets are now revealed, and try not to swoon as I slowly, sexually, knowingly flip my sign from red to green. Yes I will have another. And another. And another.
Jared Freid is a New York City-based comedian. You can follow him on Twitter @jtrain56 for videos, column updates, and more places to find some “sweet-V”.
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