Category Archives: Relationships

A Dream Come True: Robyn’s Song

We’re never all good…or all bad.

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Rihanna’s been on my mind a lot lately.  I mean, it’s been kinda hard to escape her during these last couple of months and…OK, it’s been hard to escape her during these last couple of YEARS, but lately it seems as if Robyn Fenty is one of only five celebrities that any media outlet wants to talk about.  And matter of fact, her name is still all up in the muphuckin’ mix when they’re talking about two of the other godsdamned four.  So yeah, currently 60% of all pop culture news (read: garbage) is about Rihanna.  Shit, a lot of regular news is about Rihanna right now.  On the real, I heard on NPR that if the Supreme Court had struck down the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act that the president was gonna talk that talk, repackage the shit as RihannaCare, and push it right on through Congress.  Yep.

Now properly contextualized, it certainly should not come as a shock that the woman who dominates any media vehicle capable of showcasing an image would also be occupying a lot of real estate in my brain, even without me knowing it.  I mean, that’s the only explanation that I can think of for why she would show up in my dreams, engaged in a loving, committed, and playfully affectionate romance with yours truly.  Well, there’s the fact that she’s a terrifyingly fine ass woman with more sex appeal in her left nostril than most women have in the midst of their most powerful, self-induced orgasms (yep, I’m on to THAT shit), but that’s beside the point.  I am absolutely not a Rihanna stan.  I appreciate her as an artist, as a personality, and as a beauty, but I in no way suffer from the illusion that I possess some kind of personal relationship with Ms. Fenty.

Still, the mental experience of having said relationship felt AMAZESAUCE.  It seemed so real in fact that I decided to write a song about it…kinda.  Actually, “Robyn’s Song” is really a dedication to Rihanna from a dude who has the same experience that I did, but ends up affected in a fundamentally different way.  Instead of saying, “Wow, that was fantastic.  How sad that my real dating life is somewhat less interesting, but I should really get out of bed now,” he wakes up with a heavy heart and a profound longing for a lost love that never was.  He feels deeply for her, wishes nothing but the best for her, and in his heart and mind, he’s truly linked to this unattainable star.  Meanwhile, she’ll remain the object of his unrequited affection from now until Rihanna turns good again, AKA forever.  Ahhh, love: you gorgeous, horrible, heartbreaking thing.

Here’s hoping that you listen to this with the object of your stalking in mind.  Enjoy, and devil fingers salute!

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Thug Love: Your Girl’s Favorite Oxymoron

Money over bitches. How romantic!

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The other day, I was having a conversation with a few female friends over drinks.  This was our second stop on the libation train, so we were all sufficiently lubricated enough to engage in free-flowing discourse.  (Being only an armchair psychologist and therefore not subject to APA guidelines, that’s just how I like my subjects.)  Anyway, maybe the barkeep dropped a glass, maybe a few fellow patrons suddenly caused a ruckus, but whatever it was lead me to jokingly blurt out something like, “Sheeeit!  I thought I was ‘bout to have to throw them thangs!”  One of the ladies then replied, “Oh, please.  When’s the last time you got into a fight?”  Smelling the kind of controversy that births great posts such as this, I egged them on.  “Oh, so you think if something popped off I would just scream like a little girl and run?” Another took up the opportunity to wave the Bitchass Banner all up in my face: “Nah, maybe not quite like that, but I just don’t think you’ve got much thug in you, and I like my men to have that.  See, I’ve got this friend.  He’s a blood…”

Unfortunately, the rest of the conversation is a bit spotty for me, seeing as though I started throwing up in my brain at that point.  Still, I knew what kind of fuckery she was talking because I’d heard it before.  Babygirl likes to sip on that Thug Passion, and she’s not alone.  It turns out that a not insignificant proportion of women actually have a soft spot for hard men…in psycho-emotional terms, I mean.

See, there’s a special species of bourgeois women that fetishize the icon of the Bad Boy or Thug.  In their minds, and in a romantic context, this character is something akin to what the Noble Savage was to pre-20th century white people in a cultural context.  In the eyes of the settlers, Native Americans led fundamentally alien lives, were strikingly unrefined, and also unquestionably dangerous.  In a classic demonstration of the human mind’s capacity to bend and twist on itself more adroitly than a Magic City dancer, those aforementioned scary traits are simultaneously perceived as their mirror images: alien becomes exotic, unrefined becomes pure, and dangerous becomes potent.  Asked the pioneer woman to the young brave who found her trembling in the corner of her home after his tribe’s raid of her town, “Are you gonna ravage me and kill me, Mr. Injun?  If so, do I get to pick the order?”

Look, it’s cool to have fantasies.  Everybody’s got ‘em, and they’re healthy.  But the thing about fantasies is that a lot of them would leave you transcontinentally fucked if you ever actually tried to realize them.  “My Girlfriend’s Hot Sister Wants to Get It” is one of mine, but I know that even I ain’t smooth enough to get out of THAT stunt without some serious scars…probably from hot grits.

Check it though.  It may not be as obvious, but those enchanted by the “Thug Love” fantasy are cruising for a big bruising, too.  I mean, res ipsa loquitur, kids: the thing speaks for itself.  Thugs love neither ho nor bitch, and contrary to what they may say, if they’re a thug, any woman can morph into a ho or a bitch at the drop of a muphuckin’ pimp hat.  Yes, that means you, Ms. Spelman.  Just like the former Indian cult (red dot, not feather) from whence cometh their name, thugs are killers.  And if they’re not yet killers, then they have the potential to be.  And if they don’t have the potential to be, then they’re not thugs: they’re pretenders.  Any woman that would prefer a thug or worse, a pretender, over a level-headed, fight-avoiding, job-protecting, (mostly) responsible cat like me and my homeys is playing with fire and just itching to get that ass lit up.

So ladies, the next time you feel that urge to go out and get yourself a bad boy, do yourself a favor and call that nice dude you met while volunteering for Obama instead.  Tell him to throw on a bandana (pick whichever gangsterific color gets you goin’) and make him do all kinds of naughty/disrespectful shit to you, depending on how mental you in fact are.  You’ll feel better about yourself in the long run, and you’ll probably end up avoiding annoying stuff like FBI surveillance and wet towel beatings.

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White Girls Have More Fun

Yeah, I know Maya Rudolph ain't white, but she passes better than Tim Tebow. So, whatever.

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Let me begin this missive by admitting that what follows is probably going to offend you.  I say that off top for two reasons.  First, I want you to know that I’m self aware enough to understand the delicate nature of the topic that I’m addressing.  Second, calling out the offensive nature of a piece semi-shields the writer from any subsequent fecal downpour.  It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, I told you that this one might make your ass itch.  Don’t blame me if you read it and got upset.  Matter of fact, I’m mad at YOU for reading it…inconsiderate bastard.”

Look, I can only expound on the truth as I see it.  And well, to be honest, lately I’ve been thinking that white women have a helluva lot of truth on offer.

Eh-hem.  Now that half of you have thrown your computers out of the window in fits of rage not seen since the CW cancelled “The Game,” I’ll continue.

When I say I’m seeing truth, I’m really talking about truth of being.  That is, living life in a way that is consistent with one’s authentic self, which leads to greater enjoyment, AKA fun.  I gotta say that in general, white women seem to be having more of it than their black counterparts.

OK, let me not overstate this.  I’m really talking about a specific part of living life, the part that has to do with love, sex, partying, and general good times.  Whether or not white girls are better at achieving positive work life balance or expressing their own political preferences vs. those of the patriarchy are for another writer to consider.  This is “Recognize & Realize,”  not “Feminism, Poetry, Pop-Culture, Sex.”  (Not that anything is wrong with that, in case the owner of that blog, Stephanie, actually reads this.  I mean, some of my best friends are feminists…)

I should also clarify things by saying that my comments are probably only applicable to educated women, too.  (Incidentally, educated in this context means having secured or on track to securing a college degree.)  Why?  Because those are the women with whom I’ve spent most of my time.  I’d be lying if I said that I could speak to the ins-and-outs (no pun intended) of blue-collar Beths and Bernices, ’cause well, I haven’t really gone there…that much.  All I know is that pound for pound, educated black women have way more stick up their butt, and like the late Bernie Mac said, “I don’t mean that in no nice way.”

A woman's body language can be so hard to read.

Beginning in high school, through grad school, and beyond, I’ve been amazed at the ease with which white women seem to live in their own sexual skins.  Hanky-panky doesn’t necessarily have a freakin’ timetable associated with it in Becky’s books.  It’s like you just say the right thing (or shut the eff up), pull the right levers, be there at there at the right time, and you’re off like a prom dress.  Ridiculously refreshing.  But dude, you could be trapped with a bougie black woman on an island after a zombie apocalypse has decimated 99.9% of the human population, and she’ll still make you wait ’til like the 4th date before she tosses off that grass skirt.  (Do y’all even realize how hard it is to make a coconut martini with REAL coconuts?)

I actually had a black woman tell me, after following up a very steamy initial encounter with a night full of nada in my bed, “You’re a great cuddler.  I wanted to do more, but I can’t go out like that.”  What the shit?!  Did the Great God of Blue Balls threaten to strike her down unless she sacrificed my testes on his nocturnal altar?  What kind of (un)fuckery is this?

Well, noted sociologist E. Franklin Frazier identified the roots of this problem back in the late 1950s.  In his seminal work, “Black Bourgeoisie,” Frazier let it be known that the black middle class was playing the assimilation game – hard.  Because they wanted so badly to be accepted by white folk, they actually tried to culturally OUT-white them.  This cut across multiple aspects of life, including the realm of morality.  As such, we developed the idea that a lady must never give in to desires of the flesh until – I’m guessing here – she can be reasonably certain that The People’s Slut Court would find her not guilty.  I’d argue that assimilation’s conservative grip on their panties is still quite robust and shit, 50 years later.

Meanwhile, white women found the pill in the 60s and never looked the fuck back.  I have to stop here and say that black men bear at least half of the fault for this, with all the “slut” this and “ho” that.  Dudes, if you continue with the double standards, you’re only gonna continue fucking yourself.  Literally.  But sistas, you gotta meet us half way.

Understand that no one is looking for the “Girls Gone Wild” experience.  OK, some people are, but those people are all named Colin and under the age of 25, or they’re over 35, named Eugene, and are registered sex offenders.  What is cool is the idea that folks can get together and feel free to let their hair down, do what they wanna do on their own terms, get it crackin’, or not.  ‘Cause by the way, the “not” can be cool too, sometimes.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somewhere out there somebody just let out The White Girl Yell.  Whooohooo!

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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part II

Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?

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Last time around, I wrote about the stresses of navigating the choppy seas and treacherous winds of the infamous Girls’ Night Out.  If you’ll recall, I made mention of the darkness that is the dreaded Circle of Death, a terrifying feminine fortress that has dashed more men’s hopes than Obama’s first term.  Oh, that circle may look harmless enough, but be ye not fooled.  These sirens‘ greatest joy is to toy with a man, leading him ever closer to their shores until, before he knows it, his ship is splintered on their estrogen encrusted rocks.

Even if you’ve got Travolta’s moves, look like that kid Eggs from Trueblood, and are a certified mack daddy, you might still get totally crossed out.  This leaves a lot of us handsome, skilled dancer types scratching our heads.  “I was polite.  I smiled.  I didn’t stare at her breasts (that much).  Why did she diss me?”

To fully grasp what’s going on here, you’ve got to understand the basic structure of female social group dynamics.  Surprise, surprise, they’re strikingly different from those of males.

Male social groups are organized pretty much like fighter squadrons.  They can execute coordinated attacks, but are completely willing and able to break apart as necessary to accomplish the current mission.  On the other hand, female social groups operate using a totally different configuration.  More often than not, they’re arranged like teams of escort fighters aligned with a single bomber.  Those escorts will fight tooth and nail to protect that bomber, and would rather crash and burn than lose it to the testicularly endowed enemy.

Each group member has a role to play in the sociosexual war, and though the lyrics change from crew to crew, the song remains the same.  Here’s a quick rundown of the usual cast of characters:

  1. Prom Queen –She’s fine and errrbody knows it (including her).  She’s been showered with male attention since junior high and getting hit on is as common for her as misspelled signs are at a Tea Party rally.
  2. Big Mama – Who run it?  Yep, you guessed it.  Big Mama is the matriarch of the group, and while she may not have absolute authority, her opinion is so influential that it’s de facto law.  Basically, she’s the U.S. and her crew is like the U.N.  They can do whatever they wanna do…but there will be consequences.
  3. Runner-Up – She’s kinda cute.  She’s got spunk.  Still, line her up next to Prom Queen and Big Mama, and she’s just not quite there.  Maybe it’s something really small, like her left eye is kinda sleepy.  Or perhaps it’s a glaring deficiency, like a chest so flat its freakin’ concave.  At the same time, she always manages to come up short in battles for leadership: Big Mama’s beak just keeps on pecking the bird shit out of her.
  4. Gotta Man – Who cares.  Kidding.  Her relationship status makes her a wildcard.  She could be your best friend, encouraging her girls to enjoy life to the fullest, living vicariously through them.  Or she could be a spiteful ass hater whose unhappy relationship causes her to view all men through shit colored spectacles.  Dicey.
  5. Ugly Betty – Yeah, so…the name pretty much says it all.  She may be a straight sweetheart, or an acid spewing bitch, but regardless of the multifaceted and richly textured personality within her, we know one thing for certain: babygirl is as ugly as the black unemployment rate.

Wherever she goes, Prom Queen is the center of attention.  When she’s around, heads turn, eyes widen, tongues wag.  The spotlight shines steadily on this scion of Venus and more than a little on anyone around her…which is why her friends are so fiercely protective.  She’s one bangin’ ass bomber and they’re her zealously protective escorts.

If some dude comes along and snatches her up, they’re afraid that they’ll have to kiss the attention leftovers goodbye and prepare for a long, cold winter.  That ain’t about to go down, at least not without a fight.

When a dude enters Prom Queen’s airspace, the escorts immediately fly into defensive formation.  Instead of clearing out to give you room, they remain half an arm’s length away, shooting mind bullets indiscriminately and hoping that the initial barrage alone is enough to dissuade you.  Assuming you bravely continue, they’ll move on to such battle-tested tactics as Intermittent Interruption, in which they make excuses to fuck up the flow of your conversation with crap that not even their nosy ass mother would care to hear.  “I think I found a new spin instructor.  Cortez is fabulous!”  What?!  The fuck outta here with that buuuhlshit!

Anyway, if all else fails, they bring out the big guns.  That’s when someone nonchalantly says, “It’s corny in here.  Let’s go.”  That person is usually Big Mama, and Runner-Up and Ugly Betty are almost always down to follow her nut-crunching lead.  At that point, you can only hope that you’ve fired enough well-placed shots to disrupt communications between Prom Queen and her escorts, enabling you to separate her from her crew and finish the job.  If not, you may as well say your prayers.  ‘Cause you’re gonna die.  When your plane crashes.  Metaphorically.

And that’s too bad.  I really wish women would understand that their pretty friend need not be their only path to attention from the opposite sex.

  • Big Mama, channel all that aggression toward the man at the bar who you’ve been eyeing all night.  Use those huge balls of yours for good, not evil!
  • Runner-Up, realize that to somebody in the room, you’re actually a Prom Queen.  Stop doubting and own your strength and beauty.
  • Gotta Man, let somebody else grab a little piece of happiness, even if you fucked yours all the way up the wrong end.  Be a cockbooster, not a cockblocker!
  • Ugly Betty, I’ll level with you.  Yours is not an angel’s face, but maybe you do have an angel’s heart.  Let it show.  Oh, and usually the ugly girls get like at least one freakishly dope body part, so accentuate the hell outta them breastesses and/or that derriere.  It won’t hurt.

Feel like I missed something?  Want the conversation to continue?  Drop a comment below, hit me up on Facebook, or follow @scissorspeaks on Twitter.

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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part I

Guess which witch was my one wish?

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Ah, the delightful delectability of a night out on the town. Maybe you’ve been cooped up in the crib and need to stretch out a bit. Maybe your boss has had her six inch heel up your ass all week like disturbingly graphic foot fetish porn. Maybe Questlove is spinning and you’ve got the ridiculous urge to watch ridiculously dressed black teenagers do ridiculous dances from a bygone era on ridiculously large screens in a ridiculously inconvenient part of town. Whatever the reason, you want to go out and get your groove on.

Unless you’re suffering some severe mental dysfunction, you realize that this means that you’re going to be in a social setting, i.e. around other people. Presumably, you also comprehend that a significant portion of those individuals will be of the opposite sex. For straight men, that last tidbit is not just an assumption, it’s actually a desired outcome. If we get to a bar or club and the place has more wieners than a Berlin beer garden in October, we will be none too happy. The artist on deck could be the reincarnation of J Dilla, Beethoven and Marvin Gaye all rolled into one, but sheeeit…ain’t no music that fuckin’ good. For men, women are to social events what ketchup is to hood cuisine: they just make everything better. Without them, shit is just shit.

From my experience as a storied amateur sociologist, females seem to have a similar need for the presence of males when they’re out and about. Heck, I’ve certainly been out with my homegirls and heard them complain about girl-heavy parties I’ll affectionately call “coochellas”. If this is true, it would appear that harmonic equilibrium is maintained. But see, that’s where everything actually goes completely batshit CRAY.

Although women certainly want us around when they go out, far too often it seems that they really only needs us to function as a sort of final aesthetic touch. Whereas women are a must-have for any self-respecting man when he’s out to party, no matter if he’s booed up or lustfully single, this is far from the case for the fairer sex. For them, going out with their girlfriends is the process by which they strengthen the bonds of sisterhood through the creation of common memories. Men are only useful in as much as they further the feminine bonding agenda.

If women are our ketchup, we’re just garnish to them. That’s why, nine times out of 10, when a dude walks up to a coven on the dance floor, he’s approaching a Circle of Death.

What this cat sees when he walks up is one fine woman surrounded by two to four less attractive women. (Although there’s a chance that one of the others might also be cute, I’d feel more secure betting on Dr. Dre’s “Detox” to drop before Christ’s return. I’ll get into why this is true in Part II.) What this means is that he’s not only got to overcome any natural obstacles a woman might have to him personally, he’s got to deal with the fact that he just broke up their little Wiccan Beyoncé ritual. And that shit don’t fly. Unless you’ve got the goldenest of tongues, you’re pretty much toast. And not the buttery-and-flaky-but-still-soft-on-the-inside kind. I’m talkin’ about the scrape-the-black-off-it-but-you-gone-eat-it-’cause-we-broke kind. No bueno.

This shit is a travesty and a tragedy, and it’s gotta stop. Not only are you ladies doing us gentlemen a disservice, you’re doing your country a disservice. That’s right. I said you’re being un-American little bastiches.

Cats ain’t got no money to be rollin’ out to spots, buying drinks and whatnot, only to leave with nothing to show for it! Don’t y’all muthaphuckas know times is rough out here in this piece? Every dollar that a man spends paying to get into Black Lion, or Club Cheetara, or Castle Greyskull, is a dollar that could have gone to buying the new PSbox3 console. Every bar charge on his pre-paid debit card is one less dollar to give to Kandi and Kookie, the stripper duo he’s altruistically supporting as they make their way toward University of Phoenix Extended Junior Associates Degrees. Shame on you. Again, I say shame!

Now, before you start bringing up old shit about how this is a free country and all, save your breath. I know that you have the right to live your life as you see fit (until the next time the Republicans control all three branches of American government). If you want to roll out to the spot and get your drink on and party and dance with your girls while you give me and my brothers some analogical, girly version of the Heisman, go right ahead. I’m just saying that if you’d like to gather all your girls together and dance in a circle, sans hommes, you COULD just save us dudes some frustration, stay your frigid asses at home, and have a goofy-ass, manless slumber party.

Or you can join some kind of indigenous tribe. Either one.

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The Love Menu: How to Eat to Live

"Ohhh. I thought you were using 'breakfast in bed' as a euphemism."

You are what you eat.

Everybody’s familiar with that phrase and, to some extent or another, can see the truth in it.  If you spend your time eating a bunch of crap, you’ll look like a bunch of crap.  If you consume only the finest food and drink, treating your body like a stone temple, you’ll look like a god…assuming you get your vegan ass off the couch and into the gym.

The thing is, the same axiom applies to dating, too.

People walk around so forlorn about relationships, wondering why old boy ain’t actin’ right or why homegirl is driving them up the wall.  They sit there confounded and confused as to why they either can’t find anyone at all or why the relationships that they do end up in always seem to blow up quicker than a new Israeli settlement on the West Bank.  Love is a 24-hour diner with a huge assortment of options, but they’re not feeling it at all.  The problem is that they don’t know how to eat to live.

As with any diner, you’ve got four types of dishes from which to choose: Appetizers, Entrées, Desserts and Junkfood.  Anybody that you meet is gonna fit into one of those categories.  Unfortunately, the Love Diner doesn’t actually tell you which option goes in which group – you’ve got to be able to sort the muphuckas yourself.  Lucky for you, I’m providing a cheatsheet to help you figure out what’s what the next time you’re feelin’ kinda hongry.  (Look it up on Urban Dictionary or something.)

Here’s a description of each menu heading and what it translates to in the realm of romance:

  • Appetizers – These people serve two roles.  When you’re young (or inexperienced), they get your feet wet and well…whet your appetite for love.  If you make the wrong choice here, it’s not that big of a deal ’cause you’ve still got lots more eating to do.  But, if you’ve been in the game for a while, you might be interested in an appetizer, too.  This is somebody who you enjoy spending time with and is pretty damn tasty…but not entirely filling.  That’s OK though!  Only a dummy would expect to get full off an appetizer…right?
  • Entrées – For those of you who’ve never been to a restaurant (yet miraculously have computer access), or who have problems with extended metaphors even when they’re about as subtle as a whore from Ipanema, this is the main course.  This guy or gal is what you’ve been waiting on all night.  Do yourself a favor and order something substantial.  Even if it doesn’t have the most gorgeous presentation, it might just hit the spot.  Plus, I always find that food that’s too cute usually doesn’t fill up the plate or me, and that will only leave you longing for…
  • Desserts – Yum, yum, yum.  Who’s got a taste for something sweet?  For some people, dessert is their favorite part of the meal.  In fact, it’s just so damn sexy that some folks even have it first.  I ain’t mad at that.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with indulging in a little French Vanilla, Butter Pecan, Chocolate Deluxe.  Shit, even Caramel Sundaes is gettin’ touched.  Go ahead, lick the bowl.  But see, the thing about dessert is that it may taste like heaven, but you ain’t gettin’ no real sustenance from said delectable delights.  Oh, and need I say that if you eat too much sweet stuff, you might get sick?
  • Junkfood – This is a category that causes lotsa people lotsa problems, usually because they don’t even realize that they’re eating this crap.  Why?  Because some ladies and gentlemen fuck around and order junkfood as their entrée!  Oh, this greasy, crunchy, saucy stuff tastes great and can certainly sate your appetite.  Lord knows I’ve eaten so much pizza, spicy chicken sandwiches and french fries that you’d swear I was still gettin’ free public school lunch.  But yo, the shit ain’t healthy.  Are the big laughs and good sex worth all of the screaming and pure, unadulterated, high blood pressure inducing fuckery?  Methinks not.

So, there you have it.  Now all you’ve gotta do is make sure that you order the right meal at the right time.  Sure, at some point you’re probably gonna need a nice, fairly healthy entree to get the job done.  But damn, that don’t mean that you can’t grab some cakes and pies from time to time or get you a couple of appetizers to go!  Sheeeeeit, they got a Two for $20 special up in this piece!

Know what you’re eating and why you’re eating it.  Then you can enjoy your meal for what it is without starving yourself, i.e. taking a sex sabbatical, feeling guilty or leaving the table hungry.  Bon appétit!

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Sex Sabbaticals, Unicorns and Other Lies

Don't cheat yourself...treat yourself.

The ability to lie to oneself about matters of sexuality is one of the most captivating aspects of the female psyche.  Accomplishing that requires a degree of mental fortitude that most unconflicted, straight men simply cannot achieve.  We do alright when it comes to lying to women or other men, but we just don’t give enough of a shit to pull the wool over our own eyes.  But women…women are different.  You really want to believe the BS that you’re selling to everybody else.

I think my favorite example of this amazing mental wizardry is the sex sabbatical.  You might not be familiar with the term (I may have just coined it…gotta look into that), but I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.

The idea is that a woman gets so fed up with men that she decides to give up sex for some amount of time.  Actually, that’s just the sex sabbatical in its weak form.  The strong form dictates that the woman gives up dating altogether.  In both cases, she approaches this commitment to revirgination with the utmost gravity and dedication, like an addict just starting the march up the famous 12 Steps.

Unfortunately, just like her drunk and drugged counterparts, our heroine is just one false move from falling down those steps and bustin’ her ass, or in this case, having her ass busted.

Given the right stimulus, you will gone ‘head and get you some.  A little Riesling, some Adele playing in the background, just the right combo of kisses on your neck and pressure on the inside of your left thigh…and you’re off the wagon.  But hold on before you sign up for rehab, babygirl.

Sex is fundamental to the human condition.  We quite literally need it, not just as a species, but as individuals, and denying our desire for it is futile at least and self-destructive at worst.  That’s why the whole sex sabbatical phenomenon is a big, fat, blueballs-inducing shame.  But who would put themselves in that predicament in the first place?

There are only two types of women that would arrive at the ridiculous conclusion that they should forswear sex.  The first one isn’t capable of maintaining consistent relations with men in the first place, or as one female friend of mine said, “she ain’t on a steady d*ck diet.”  That’s a classic sour grapes scenario of course, and for the purposes of this entry, not worth discussing.  The other kind of woman is different though.  She’s on a quest for power.

For some reason, real or imagined, this woman feels that sex has been her personal gateway to pain.  As such, her mission is to regain control over her emotional life by blocking all entry to her Hidden Valley, thereby cutting heartache off at the pass.  The problem is that this is a shortsighted measure.  Men absolutely need to be responsible with women’s feelings, especially after nastytime.  Y’all are delicate, and shit.  But would Mr. Voltron have been any more sensitive if he hadn’t already slayed your robeast with his blazing sword?  Childhood anime references aside, if you didn’t have sex with him, would he have treated you differently?

I think not.  Holding out on sex might keep a ravenous man well-behaved for a while, but it’s not going to change who he is fundamentally.  If dude is an unkind, inconsiderate prick, keeping him away from the goods ain’t gonna make him appreciate you more—it’s just gonna make you excruciatingly horny and ensure that he keeps regularly banging that waitress at Applebee’s.  I mean, he’s gonna keep doing that regardless (ummm…he’s a prick), but at least you’d be getting some action, too!

Oh, and I interrupt this entry to bring you a very important news bulletin: not every guy you date is an asshole.  The man sitting across from you might be a really cool person who sees you as a whole being, not just a piece of pie, waiting to get cut up.  So, while y’all may not end up together over the long haul, there’s no reason why you both can’t enjoy a little desert before dinner.

Look, it’s obviously not a cool situation when the bull’s been dragging you around so long that you don’t even wanna ride the muphucka anymore.  Who wants to get yanked and jerked around ’til they’re dizzy, then thrown down hard to the ground?  OK, men…don’t answer that.  Seriously though ladies, you can’t get the pleasure without the pain.  That’s the price we pay to live life fully.  So when it hurts, you just gotta brush yourself off, grab them horns with both hands, hop on top, and ride ’em, cowgirl!

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