Female Contraception

One of the things I’ve always loved about women is the amount to which they feel the scrutiny of peer pressure. Like that one ridiculously fat girl at the bar who’s oozing out of a skirt that was designed to hug the hips of starving Ethiopian kids. Why’s she wearing it? Paris Hilton made a video wearing it. At least, we think she was wearing it. It’s hard to see one’s skirt when the entire video is just the top of one’s head.

However, where this whole concept reaches a level of insanity is when it comes to the female mind and sex.

Men have it easy. Male consciousness goes this way: “Sex? Hell yes. By any means necessary. Don’t care who knows, what the surroundings, who with, or who needs to get stabbed. If there’s a wet, receptive hole, I’ll be inside it faster than anti-depressants into the son of Anna Nicole Smith.”

Hence, semi-conscious intercourse behind a convenience mart, with fat sack of crap wearing the Hilton dress is (after the right number of whiskey sours) a truly magical and romantic moment, even with the over-powering stench of hot wings and the creaking of bones under untold pounds of fat each time she belches. Plus, we know at the end of the night we can out-run her if she wants our phone number.

Women have way more qualifying conditions. Things like “class” and “character.” I tell you, a guy could go crazy trying to interpret them all. It’s not enough that guys have to somehow match a set of expectations never explained to us that fluctuate wildly from woman to woman, sometimes a girl actively goes out of her way to sabotage her own chances of getting lucky that night. This brings me back to my point about peer pressure, sex, and the female mind.

I have "lady" (and I use the term loosely here) friends who admit to little rituals designed to stop themselves from putting out what they feel is “too early” in a relationship. Things like not cleaning their apartments, wearing the ugliest pair of underwear they own, or not shaving…various places. That kind of thing. The premise is that being called a whore by one’s date the next day isn’t much of a deterrent. But him seeing that one's sheets don’t perfectly match the curtains…well, that just couldn’t be tolerated.

You heard me right: in some cases, a pair of granny panties act as a fallback method of contraception.

I’m going to level with you: I’ve been with some women with dirty residences. I can never remember thinking, “Wow, did you see all the streaks on the glass while she was bent over the coffee table? Fucking pig. And when you were in the reverse airplane, did you notice that this lazy skank’s movies weren’t even alphabetized?”

I guess I just find it funny how much pressure women feel is exerted on them to be perfect. Especially considering how generally oblivious we men are. I had a girl ask me if she remembered the pants she wore two weeks ago. I said, “I don’t even remember you being around, let alone what Salvation Army refugees you managed to squeeze your cootch into a fortnight ago.”

So here’s a tip, ladies: If you’re really looking at a reason not to sleep with a guy, I wouldn’t be stressed about the way your apartment looks. Instead of worrying about sorting your 800 shoes by color, focus on something important. Because your true love won’t care about your room, your underwear, or your small imperfections. Trust me. He’s too busy staring at those extra 20 pounds you’ve packed on since college, Saddlebags.

Ehren Attacks The Dating World

I expect to be completely free later tonight. Why? Because I have a date at 7:30. I honestly have no idea how people go through this whole “dating” thing. As near as I can tell, it’s a complete train wreck waiting to happen. This is why I’ve made it my mission for the night to be the conductor, not the cow in the middle of the tracks.

After some reflection, I realized that the reason most dates seem like the social equivalent of being tortured by Inquisition members is because both parties are trying to impress the other person. How do they try to do this? By being polite, normal, and even-tempered. In my experience, girls hate guys like that. By trying to exude those qualities, I completely miss any chance of being fun, unique or original. So since I’ve no choice but to submit to dating hell, I might as well get some good writing material out of this.

I’ve made two columns. The first are standard date activities. The second are most likely to be my actions for the night:

Standard Date	Ehren's Date
Show up at date's house in freshly washed car.	Sprint desperately up to house in deshelved clothes carrying a full-grown pig. Throw myself in the front door and cautiously peak out the window. "If anyone asks, you never saw that pig!"
Take date to nice restaurant for food	Take date to theme restaurant. Order an obscene portion of food. Preferably an if-you-can-finish-it-it's-free offer.
Pay for everything.	When the check arrives, eye my date and ask, "How fast can you run?" Make a break for the nearest window. If needed, throw plate, chair, or nearby diner through the glass first.
Over a few drinks, discuss political topics of the day.	Get embaressingly drunk over pints of mead at a grog house. Loadly yell about "Why I'm going to take Tommy Jenkins other eye too if he welches on another bet." Wave knife menacingly.
Over soft music on the ride home, make plans for next date.	Blast Slayer albums at high volumes, while driving like a maniac. Demand to know if she'll meet me at the abandoned quarry next full moon. Demand that she come alone and not wear silver.
Perfunctory kiss on the cheek.	Yell, "Oh my God!!! It's that pig-stealing frame-up artist, Tommy Jenkins!!!" When she looks, attempt to get my entire tongue, tonsils and digestive tract down her throat.

I figure if nothing else, that will make for a memorable evening. Besides, aren’t women always saying that they’re looking for unique, good-looking rebels who play by their own rules? That’s me, baby! Don’t mind the fire, honey. I won’t let you get burned.

Getting An Office--By Any Means Necessary

Apparently the executives in my company are extremely protective of their offices. They seem to view them as status symbols. Never has any group of men so severely overcompensated for their small penises through such shoddy use of dry-wall.

I get it, ok? You’ve proven that you’re willing to take corporate’s cock, foot, and tongue all the way up inside your ass. When you bleed, you save your blood so you can sell it on eBay for the stock holders.

Once in a while, I’ll walk by one of the offices and be subjected to a snotty stare that says, “You there: surf! Never forget who rules your existence. If you live, it is by my grace alone. Now run along, worm, before I reconsider my kindness.”

Part of me wants to recreate the Monty Python sketch from “Meaning of Life” where rogue accountants attack an accounting firm and seize control. I figure that commandeering an office with a canon, pistol, and handful of loyal amputees ought to make my general esteem in the office go up. People will pass me in the hall and say, “Now there’s a dude who gets shit DONE. Truly a commander of men. But don’t fuck with him or he’ll keel hull you.”

But deep down, I suspect violence is not the answer. Also, I don’t own a parrot, so I’ve moved on to my alternate plan. I’ve been sizing up their offices and they truly seem like the most poorly constructed closets I’ve ever seen. So I’m thinking about showing up on a Sunday and throwing up some dry wall around my desk. Either that or I’ll just grab one of those Hunting shacks they sell up at Home Depot.

Then I will show these dudes what a REAL office looks like. For starters, I can finally get the job title I want. I figure I’ll put it up over the door in flashing lights:

Ehren
Supreme Overlord of Demons and Sales

I’ll set up a friend at a desk outside, and hire two more to stand on either side of the door in matching black suits. Anyone who wants to protest my new digs will be forcibly bounced by the receptionist and, if necessary, my road crew. That ought to cause some confusion around the water cooler.

I’m a bit conflicted about what to put inside. Part of me thinks that I should completely pimp the place out: hot tub, stripper pole, beanbag chairs, mini bar, and vibrating bed— the whole nine yards. The other part thinks I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t have a full-size, working replica of Pee Wee’s Playhouse.

On the other hand, maybe I should just blast music, set up a strobe light and replace the receptionist with a velvet rope. Then my friends with the matching suits can just hold a clipboard and insist that the office manager isn’t on the list. Yes, it’d be all fun and games until someone got tasered.

Business Cards And Prank Wars

Today I experienced one of those moments of sincere and total let down, the kind that only appear upon the last gasping breath of the demise of your childhood’s dream:

My business cards arrived.

Don’t get me wrong, for business cards, they’re pretty ok. They have my name, job title and company name all clearly displayed. I suppose that they’d be good for handing out to women in a vain attempt to convince them that I am in fact employable. And I could use them to win free lunches at restaurants.

But it’s depressing that I have a business card. When I was kid, I always assumed that I’d have something really cool as my calling card. Like murder, mayhem, or a rare type of poisonous lizard. How can you reconcile yourself to a piece of cardboard when you thought maybe people would come across an entire platoon of slaughtered Nazi-Cyborg Wizards and nervously scan the jungle for your shadow?

It’s just not fair. For a while I was thinking about getting my name and number painted on the backs of some black widow spiders and handing them out instead of cards. But that would just be impractical. Who the hell wants to spend the time to draw on spiders? Also I’m nervous about keeping swarms of poisonous things in my pants.

Now, it’s bad enough that I have to carry these things around. But it’s downright soul-crushing to me that my job title doesn’t read:

Horrible Despot of the Desert Raiders
Supreme Potentate of Earth and Sea
The Terrible
God of War
Devourer of Souls

I want a job where I can sit in my cubicle and answer the phone, “Ehren, Devourer of Souls, how can I help YOU today?” Of course, if I got that title, I’d probably have to also get one of those harmonizers that drop my voice about six octaves. You know maybe I’d better get one of those things and hook it up just in case. Maybe that big promotion is just around the corner and all that’s holding me back is my sweet, lilting tenor. And even if it’s not, I bet I get more respect from my boss next time I answer the phone in a voice that makes her eyes bleed.

In other news, I was asked to participate in an inter-office prank war. I politely declined. I don’t understand office pranks. For some reason, shooting rubber bands at an office member is hysterical, but when you show up at their house at 4 A.M., chain them up, lock them in the trunk with a hornet’s nest, drive them three states away and abandon the car in the middle of the desert, suddenly you “crossed a line.”

Personally, I think they were overreacting. I mean, I know what’s funny. Rubber bands are not. Kidnapping and attempted manslaughter: hysterical. After all, you can’t spell “manslaughter” without “laughter.”

Fun In An Elevator: Living It Up While My Career Goes Down

On the wall of my building’s elevator is the sign “Maximum: 23 persons.” Try as I might, I’m having difficulty imagining what 23 people in my elevator would like look. That’s a lot of midgets, let alone fat office types. I’m also trying to imagine what kind of dick takes a running start and jams himself into an elevator that’s already carrying 23 people.

There are a bunch of weird rules that govern etiquette between strangers in uncomfortably close conditions. Essentially, you treat them like cheap whores and never look them in the eyes. Let alone kissing them on the lips. Apparently that's a "hot button" issue with a lot of people.

Prudes.

Also, no matter what happens, never be the first one to acknowledge anything about the other passengers. It’s the same protocol that governs pissing in urinals placed uncomfortably close together: look straight ahead and pretend that no one else exists. As soon as the guy next to you takes his cock out, he turns on a cloaking device that doesn’t power-off until he zips up.

For the sake of elevator etiquette, I just took the world's most pointless ride. Having spectacularly failed to remember the maximum occupancy for our lift, I decided to go check in person. When the doors opened there was one, fat, balding bastard standing in the middle of the car. He locked eyes with me and looked so pathetic that I couldn’t bring myself to read the sign and then leave. I mean, think how paranoid that would make him: a kid steps into the car and then refuses to ride. He’d swear that his deodorant wasn’t working or something. So I rode all the way to the bottom, waited until he turned a corner and then took the same elevator back to the top. There’s my good deed for the day.

Tomorrow, however, it might be fun to mess with my fellow passengers. I’ve formulated a couple ideas.

• Wait until the Elevator is jammed and then groom the head of the person in front of me for lice.
• When the car is about full and when the doors close loudly insist that we “get a massage circle going.”
• If someone stands close to me, wait a few seconds and say, “You smell niiiiiiiiiiiiiice.” Then maintain eye-contact for the remainder of the ride.
• Step out of the elevator wearing spandex and futuristic goggles. Then grab the first person who walks by and demand “Quick, what year is this?” When they respond say, “Good…then there’s still time” and dash off.
• Wear tattered rags, a fake, straggly beard, and munch on what appears to be a human leg bone. When the door opens, fling myself out and yell, “After all these years! Freedom! Sweet, sweet freedom!” Then kiss the ground.
• Have three friends in the car. Once the trip starts, launch into song, with my friends (standing at other ends of the elevator) joining in one after another. See if I can get the whole car singing in unison. I'm thinking a stirring rendition of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" ought to do nicely.
• Wait until the car is filled and a woman stands next to me. Quietly ask her what time it is. When she answers, loudly protest “No, I will not make out with you!!! No wonder you have all those diseases, whore!!!” This one probably works best on obviously pregnant women.
• When the doors open, charge out at full speed, frantically slapping at my body and throwing my shirt off. Scream “BEES!!! FUCKING BEES!!!” and sprint for the fountain out front.
• Carry on a fake argument with a friend in sign language, getting more and more animated. At the end of the ride scream, “Fuck you!” and slap him.
• Hand out scripts to a scene from Tennessee Williams’ play “The Glass Menagerie.” Assign everyone a part and run through the scene. If there are not enough players, do multiple parts in different voices and accents.
• Wear an extravagant suit and a gaudy, expensive watch. When the doors close, pan-handle aggressively.

I figure that ought to make for some interesting entertainment. I’d say it’s a miracle if I don’t get kicked out of the building in the next week…but the REAL wonder here is that I haven’t yet been fired. Shit. I just jinxed it, didn't I?

Snappy Conclusions To Conversational Nightmares

I have officially abandoned all hopes of being smooth. The dream is dead.

I realized this halfway through a retelling of a story concerning my most traumatizing sexual experience. In retrospect, the funniest part was that it somehow took halfway through the story to notice that my dick is not a valid topic of discussion on a first date. Well, not unless I become a date rapist, anyway. And I simply do not have the money to buy guitar shit AND roofies.

However, I also realized something valuable: mace is, at best, a double-edged sword when used in enclosed spaces.

No, what I realized was that I never really liked cool girls anyway. In fact, I actually find them pretty repellent on the whole. I can’t even count the times I’ve been out in a bar when my friends will grab my shoulder and spin me to face a girl with a fantastic body. Where-upon I’ll size her up and say, “Yeah, she’s hot—but she’s too trendy for me.”

I don’t want a girl who dresses up because that’s what’s “in” at the moment. I don’t want a girl who listens to top 40. I don’t want a girl who is so insecure in her own taste that she has to throw herself before the alter of public pressure to tell her how to dress and act. Trendy girls instantly lose points in my book because I just assume that they pretty much have nothing to add to a conversation. And that means I have to be the one talking…meaning that sooner or later I’m going to tell a widely inappropriate story.

Trying to be cool is ALWAYS bound to fail and not just because of my horrible acting abilities and blurting problem. It was doomed because the girls who LIKE cool Ehren earn my disgust.

Still…the “spermicide” story on the first date? There’s a difference between being counter-cultural and a fucking idiot. What is it? A mullet and a rape whistle.

I was wondering today if there is any possible social ruse one could use to redeem oneself after a fuck-up as large as recounting a trip to the ER for condoms. I don’t know a lot about people…but that seems like it might be a conversational pit with no escape. I mean, unless your next words are “And that’s where I got my idea for the health-care reform that earned me billions.”

Actually, I don’t think that there’s any ending you could put on that story that wraps it up into a socially accepted dinner conversation. Pretty much the only possible conclusion is silence and nervous laughter. So I’ve decided that all my stories need to be wrapped up in a neat little bow. The kind that fosters hope that American values are still alive. Something wholesome and uplifting. It took me a while, but I’ve finally hit on the perfect ending to any story:

“And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.”

“So the doctor said, ‘stop using spermicide and your dick won’t swell up and kill you.’ So I went home, threw out the condoms, took the pills and made a full recovery. And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.”

Wow, that’s really snappy! Damn, I wish I thought to use this on my date! I would have at least gotten head. Oh well, I guess it’s for the best anyway: I wouldn’t her to think I was trendy and concerned about being cool. I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes, it’s better to be yourself, no matter how crazy or illegal it may be. And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.

The Definition Of Wrong

I was in Coldstone Creamery today with a co-worker who, for the sake of his marriage, will remain nameless (cough-Marvin-cough). I had just consumed close to my body-weight in under-cooked meat and was searching for something to push me over the edge into an irreversible diabetic coma. You know, I think maybe that should be Coldstone’s new slogan:

Coldstone: home of irreversible diabetic comas.

It’s got a nice ring to it doesn’t it? Besides, from what I gather in recent health surveys, diabetes is really “in” this year.

I was standing in line, patiently waiting a cup of ice-cream that would have made eight pounds of sugar seem bland and just to my right there were three girls sitting at a table eating ice-cream. They were probably no older than 15. And considering how busted my radar is, if I thought they were 15, chances are they were closer to 4.

Honestly, if you took all three of their ages added it up, multiplied by three and added 50, they probably STILL would have been rediculously underage.

They were dressed in a way that made me want to hunt down their parents and knife them like the end fight from “The Hunted.” Obscenely tight shirts, stockings, skirts that barely covered their cootches…the whole deal. The real marvel of their outfits is that none of them had the word “cum dumpster” scrawled across the ass.

They were chatting the way school girls do about, I imagine, what's the coolest study hall activity: jacks, jump rope or statutory rape. Intermittently they'd emitting deafening bursts of giggles.

After one outburst that reached frequencies only meant for bats and dolphins, I turned to look at them. Just as I did so, the one on the far side of their table, leaned over to pick up her spoon, giving me a cleavage shot that almost completely justifies pedophilia. It was there and, to say the least, impressive. I’m human…so I looked.

It took perhaps two-tenths of a second for me to realize “16 will get you 20” and recover my self-control. With an almost superhuman display of willpower, I forced my gaze north, inwardly hearing every woman who'd said, “Excuse me, I’m up here.” That’s what women LIKE to think, isn’t?

Ms. Statutory was looking right at me.

There are few more socially awkward moments in a man’s life then when he’s busted looking at cleavage. Women know we look. But the agreement is this: men do it; women pretend not to notice and are secretly flattered. It’s an arrangement that’s served everybody well so far. The problem is that once in a while, someone fucks up. Either a woman will blatantly let us know she caught you or a man, like a fool gazing at the sun, will forget to avert his eyes and suffer the consequences.

It was one of those cases that was unfair. Just so COMPLETELY unfair. I’d been doing my best to ignore these girls since I walked in, and within the first two seconds of an involuntary glance in their direction, I’d been busted eying them up like I was auditioning the next Jonbenet Ramsey. Meanwhile, my co-worker, had been sizing them up with a gaze that could only be described as predatory. He spent more time studying them than the menu.

“Did you see those girls?" he asked as soon as our feet hit the pavement outside. "My GOD they were hot.”

“Yeah, and illegal.”

“Illegal and HOT. Come on, do you really think it would be wrong?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the definition of wrong” I replied.

“Oh yeah?" he retorted. "Whose definition?”

“Megan’s Law.”

Messing With The Neighbors And Interesting Dinner Conversation

My new office building is designed to be so corporate as to completely suck all life from my fellow employees. But where my bosses no doubt see a symbol of my business’ slowly evolving respectability, I see the chance for mischief.

Directly across the street is another office building of the same height. Several of my work fellows have successfully made contact with these strange creatures across the way through wild hand motions. I’ve been working on a few more devious plots.

My first idea was to purchase a large length of rubber tubing, open a window, and build a giant catapult using two desks and shopping cart full of cantaloupe. Unfortunately, my supervisors are one step ahead of me and have already welded the windows closed. Curse their foresight! I suppose it’s just as well. Because I suspect that once I’d mastered the trajectory for launching melons, it’d only be a matter of time before I was suiting up in a crash helmet, full Evel Knievel garb and reenacting the Snake River Canyon jump.

So since I’m unable to horrify my neighbors through medieval siege equipment, I’ll have to resort to a significantly less formidable weapon: my overactive imagination.

I’ve decided that a series of full-window signs is really the way to go.

Day 1: Now 756 Days Without A Killing Rampage!
Day 2: Now 757 Days Without A Killing Rampage!
Day 3: Now 758 Days Without A Killing Rampage!
Day 4: Now 759 Days Without A Killing Rampage!
Day 5: So Much Death…Please Send Help
Day 6: He’s Got Me Trapped. For The Love Of God, Send Food.
Day 7: Had To Eat Own Foot. Afraid To Sleep
Day 8: Can’t hold out…much longer…so hungry
Day 9: (Sign is gone, replaced by a bloody handprint that smears down the window)
Day 10: No change
Day 11: No change
Day 12: No change
Day 13: A number of bullet holes appear in the window
Day 14: No change
Day 15: No change
Day 16: No change
Day 17: (A big, cheerful sign brightly reads): Now Hiring!
Day 18: Now 1 Day Without A Killing Rampage

I figure that ought to make for an interesting half a month.

In other news, a significant streak I’d been running for the last ten months has finally come to an end. Today my mom asked me, “Do you have a blog?”

Me, “Ummmm…why?”

“Because I was reading it today.”

Yeah, that wasn’t awkward or anything. I have no idea how she found it. I mean, I still have to set up my mom’s email for her. Basically, her computer knowledge is limited to two actions: she can type her name and yell at me for help. The odds of her tracking me down where virtually nil.

I guess it was bound to happen eventually. Now, I already know that my parents’ opinion of me is somewhat suspect. God only knows what they’ll think of me after this. I’m not even certain if they know I’m not a virgin! Looks like I’m in for some very interesting dinner conversation.

Wrap It Up, Wrap It In...

The worst part about being a single guy is the condom situation. Honestly, I don’t think women realize what a genuine pain in the balls being responsible is. OK, so maybe I don’t have to deal with strange objects being pushed inside of me…so far. Here’s hoping that that’s a trend that continues.

So, let’s say I somehow convince a girl to go on two dates with me before saying something combustible like, “Yeah, I can get you a list of people I’ve been with. Do you have a copy of the phone book?”

Number three is tonight and we’re supposed to “watch a movie.” Watching a movie is the greatest line in the history of dating. I have a friend who swears that he’s gone to watch films and had his pants off before the FBI copyright warning flashes across the screen. Here’s an imitation of every single girl who ever had a man over to her house to see a movie:

“Credits, opening scene, good looking actor, oh that’s a penis in my face.”

So I know it’s my job to be prepared. Not only is it good planning and common courtesy, it also prevents the thoughts that go through my head when the girl I’m with says, “Don’t worry, I have PLENTY of condoms.” Women who keep large quantities of contraceptives might not really be thinking about the image it presents to their dates.

“Wow…this girl has like 500 rubbers. What the fuck has she been doing? How many men did she have in here tonight?”

Now I try to be polite when I go buy condoms. But no matter what time of day, one of the following groups seems to have nothing better to do than hang out in the Family Planning sections:

1. A mom and her two sons, ages 10 and 7
2. A father and his unbelievably hot 15 year-old daughter
3. An elderly couple of ninety who immediately strike up a conversation about how I have a “kind and morally upstanding face.”
4. My high school guidance councilor
5. My mother’s closest friends.

Needless to say, all eyes become instantly locked on me the second I enter the isle and remain on me while I try to decide on a selection. I think I might as well just make a giant shirt that says, “I’M DEFILING SOMEONE’S DAUGHTER TONIGHT.”

Have you ever noticed that when you’re carrying a box of condoms, everyone unconsciously sizes up your package?

OK, so somehow I’ve managed to arrive at the point in the evening where a condom is needed. She’s hot. I’m hot. Everyone’s ready…and now I have to get up and grope through my pockets. I know a lot of people say something like, “Just take them out and put them on the bedside table before making out.”

I’m a superstitious cat, ok? I never want to do ANYTHING to jinx it. It’s like talking to your pitcher in a no-hitter.

“Naked girl on the bed. NAKED GIRL ON THE BED. GET THE FUCKING CONDOM.”

No matter how many pockets you have, they are always in the last one.

Keys, gum, wallet.

“Naked girl. Starting to look kind of bored. FUCK!”

Movies stubs, guitar picks, receipts, wallet again.

“OK, she’s sitting up now. Starting to get back into the movie. What the hell??? I didn’t even know I owned a blockbuster card. Maybe it’s in—HA success!”

So, she’s rapidly losing interest. The vibe is completely shot. The pressure on me is ever increasing, because now I have to manage with a hermetically sealed nightmare of a packaging design. By this point, my fingers are usually slick with various fluids, the lighting is poor, and I know that all that stands between me and sweet release is the shoddiest design this side of Michael Jackson’s nose.

Usually, I get a grip on the wrapper and promptly tear out nothing but the smallest corner imaginable. So then I have to use my teeth…and her fluids are mixing with the taste of latex and God knows what else they put in the lube. But through persistence, I manage to open enough of the side of the square to squeeze my prize through.

No one, in the history of safe sex, has ever looked attractive while putting a condom on himself. Maybe it’s because guys have no sense of flair and seduction. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but think of a sausage-stuffing operation. Either way, the scene is about as sexy as staving Ethiopians.

Over the course of my life, I’ve been told by a few women, “don’t worry. Just pull out.” This is the kind of thing that makes me REALLY nervous. How many other guys has she suggested this to? “Just for that” I think to myself, “I’m wrapping it up twice.”

So a good period of time has passed. A pleasant evening/morning/fortnight was had by all. She’s cuddling into my arms, and I’m lying in a pool of sweat desperately trying to regain equilibrium…and feeling in my legs. It’s moments like these where I feel like a werewolf regaining human form. There I am, slowly regaining consciousness in a scene of unimaginable horror, and all I can think is “Oh my God! WHAT HAVE I DONE???”

Of course, this moment of horror varies in intensity based on how drunk I was at the beginning of the evening.

Eventually, I’m once again forced to break off the moment and the embrace. Really, considering the extent to which condoms ruin the mood, it’s a wonder that anyone actually gets laid while wearing them. This time, I have to move because the shirk-wrapped Twinkie swinging between my legs isn’t filled with crème. For you ladies, imagine that you had to tear a band-aid off your vagina. Only the band-aid is full of weird fluid that’s sticky and gets stringy under water. And you’re completely covered in latex burn.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to just wrap my face in plastic and spare myself the trouble.

Sometimes, The Floor Isn't A Bad Place To Be

Over the weekend, I had an epiphany. Or maybe it was indigestion. Whatever it was, it’s all thanks to a weird event that happened on Friday.

I drove out to Buffalo. I’d spent way too much time this summer stuck in my routines and my rut. It was high time that I got out of dodge. You have to understand that I was at a point where it didn’t matter where I went, so long as it wasn’t HERE.

As far as scenic destinations go, let me just say this: there are more exotic locales than Buffalo. Yes, Upstate New York where the men are men and the sheep are fearful. It’s enough to make you say, “You know, maybe ethnic cleansing isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

But enough about the psychological trauma I endured in college. Today’s post is about the trauma I endured Friday night.

I arrived at the house of a girl I know. The story of her and I is one of many twists, turns, flirtations and partial nudity. All that is really relevant to Friday night is this:

Over the course of a couple years, we’d made out a few times, talked on the phone once in a while, and there was a mutual attraction. Essentially, we both knew that my appearance in Western New York was guaranteed ass for both of us.

So I arrived and we hung out with a bunch of our mutual friends. I played guitar for a while and then I made jokes and told funny stories. I expected it to be a chill, low-key night…with ass at the end. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan on alcohol and morals.

She was nervous. I understand that. I mean, after about two years this was finally going to happen between us. What if I’d built up unrealistic expectations? Or what if I lost respect for her and didn’t call? There was any one of a thousand reasons to be nervous. Of all the ways she could have dealt with it, she picked the worst one: she started drinking. Heavily.

Six beers and six shots later, she decided she wanted to go out to the bars. Lofty ambitions for a girl who couldn’t even make it out her chair. She was completely hammered. So I rescued her as best I could.

“I’m actually kind of beat from the drive up. Is it ok if I take a rain check on going out? I think I’d rather just call it a night.”

“OK.” She cooed. “Why don’t you come tuck me in?”

No good deed ever goes unpunished.

Now, my “brilliant” tactical move had the desired effect of not having to carry her out to a situation where she was going to have to drink more and be hospitalized. Unfortunately, it meant that her and I were about to have a confrontation. Because apparently, I have those pesky things called “morals.” Who knew?

Five minutes later, I carried her up to her room and I was attacked. She was warm, soft beautiful, and all over me. And then I ruined everything.

“I can’t do this.” I said, pushing her away. “Look, you know I want you…but not like this.”

“Come on” she said. In one deft motion she whipped my belt off. “You didn’t drive all the way up here just to play guitar for me. I want to play something else of yours.”

“No.” I said more firmly. I sat her on the bed. “I want you to drink some water and get some sleep. I’m going downstairs to grab some shut eye on the couch.”

Fine!” she snapped. “Go. Get the fuck out of my room.”

Three hours later, cold, stiff and sleepless on the floor of the living room (the couch had been commandeered before I arrived downstairs) I realized that this was the perfect example of my life with women. My reward for not taking advantage of a drunk girl: the floor and no respect.

I recently read a book about underground seduction artists. They have a whole series of ploys and tricks that manipulate women into sleeping with them. Basically, through practice, patience and heartlessness, you can learn to pick up hundreds of women. Some of these guys approach a thousand women a night.

So here’s my epiphany of the weekend: given the choice between being able to trick girls into wanting me or sleeping on the floor alone, I’m choosing the floor. Think about how depressing it must be to be able to trick women into sleeping with you. If these methods work, I imagine that eventually women would become completely dehumanized.

The things I like best about women:

• The feeling of power when they cuddle up to me after sex. And how I feel deserving of that trust.
• Girls who see my faults and think I’m cute anyway.
• The way even the most coldhearted women can suddenly seem so vulnerable.

I don’t think I’d enjoy girls so much if it involved treachery. So women, keep hope. I hereby crown myself an eternal clown. Another pick-up artist has officially been thwarted for good. If anyone’s interested, you know where to find me: asleep on the floor.