Banter is Sexy! Part Three: Sober Men and Women Do Not Think Alike. Who Knew?

A long time ago in cities far, far away. . .

Ms. Shelby Kent-Stewart and I decided to do it a third time. . . blogging that is.

Shelby wrote a great piece which I think should have been titled: Dude Diligence.

However, after reading my tequila-shot-influenced retort, she went in a different direction.

How My Search For Mr. Right Was Derailed By Mr. Wrong — Or Why I’m Joining A Convent

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Don’t blame me. I’m a method writer. . . if that’s a thing. I get into character, which sometimes means abandoning all my hard-won existing character in order to write something based not on who I am now, but who I might have found it interesting to be in some other time. The titles floating around in my head when I wrote this were:

Going Douche Bagging or Douche-Baggery For Beginners.

In my head, these sounded better than: Why People Need To Get Drunk In Order To Fuck. It’s not just about lowering inhibitions. . . it’s about lowering standards too because we just need to get some.

Shelby’s came first.

While sex is commonly defined as skin-on-skin action with all the attendant whimpering and wet stuff, the journey to the Big O starts long before an article of clothing is shed.

Foreplay begins with the initial connection, a glance or smile across a crowded room. It’s in that magical moment when my lady parts go on high alert and I’m ripe for the picking. But not just any picker. I have my standards. Doesn’t everyone? Alas, no. Based on conversations with gal pals, the criteria is often something like this: If he can sketch the location of the G-spot on a cocktail napkin while simultaneously licking his eyebrows, it’s go-time.

No judgment here. We all have needs and it’s a one-night stand — or so you tell yourself. Except when it isn’t, those awkward few minutes when it’s over and the only things more mangled than the bed sheets are your emotions. It could be the worst sex you’ve ever had but that pesky conundrum hangs in the air like week-old unrefrigerated milk: What if it was just an off night? Or it could be the best sex you’ve ever had and you wake up six months later in a serious relationship with a jerk who’s swapped your clitoris for a joystick. You know the type, the loser who thinks a romantic evening is pizza and a poke by candlelight because he forgot to pay his electric bill.

But it’s his fault, right? Nope. You failed to do your Dude Diligence, the ability to see past his sexy baby blues and rippling abs to the guy beneath who, if you’re lucky, won’t leave you hanging in the home stretch.

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Are there warning signs? Hundreds, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll list only a few and the remedial action you can take to save yourself heartache and financial ruin:

  • Posses are for pussies. If he’s over thirty and still travels in a group, consider this a big red flag. Trying to crack the guy-gang is like looking for the Lost Dutchman Mine. It’s all fun and games until you step on a rattlesnake, slip into a crevice and die of dehydration. To his buds you’ll always be the interloper who’s too smart, too dumb, too ugly, too pretty, too easy, too…well, you get the point. There’s a reason rats travel in packs. Ditch him.
  • If indeed “The eyes are the window to your soul as Shakespeare and others have opined, then I propose the guy who can’t make eye contact for thirty seconds before eyeballing the table of drunken bachelorettes may be more Richard III than Romeo. Need romance? A Nicholas Sparks novel is cheaper and less wear and tear on your psyche. Buh-bye.  
  • If you buy into the bromides that a little mystery is good for a relationship or what you don’t know won’t hurt you, get a grip. What you don’t know can get you bound, gagged and stuffed in the trunk of a Camaro. I’m not suggesting you hook him up to a polygraph, but if you’re planning on tagging and bagging your latest quarry for some undercover action, the very least you should expect are the essentials.
  • “So tell me about yourself,” is always a good opener, but be warned. If you find yourself dozing or polishing off your third dirty martini as he regales you with everything from the name of his personal trainer to his ex’s obsession with gay porn, this doesn’t bode well for the boudoir. Narcissists rarely come with warning labels. If he’s self-absorbed out of bed, odds are your trek to orgasmic bliss is fraught with failure. Thankfully, most restaurant staffs are helpful in showing you the rear door where you can make your escape. Do it.

In short, use your head and everything south will reap the rewards. Too cerebral? Okay, how about this. Blow is just an expression. Suck it. Better?

Whatev.

I went with a somewhat shorter section title as I slipped on a pair of twenty-five-year-old jeans for inspiration—my Bon Jovi pants—to get in touch with memories of a bygone era. Speaking of memories, I don’t remember them being so tight.

In today’s response to Shelby’s notions, I will be drawing upon my years of experience as a behavioural researcher to portray myself as a typical mindless male in a club setting who has too much blood being sucked from his brain by his semi-engorged member. This, of course, is purely fictional as I have no actual experience in this area because I was always SO evolved. (Coughs.)

  • “. . .the journey to the big O. . .”: This is probably the ‘sex is mental for women’ thing every guy in a bar doesn’t care about. “Mental” being the operative word. Intoxicated horny women display varying degrees of mental. Two drinks and they are flirty. Three. . . and the get touchy-feely. Four. . . and the mental escalates from tequila body shots to making out in front of everyone. If you are lucky enough to find a power-drinker, there are no limits to the inhibitions she may chuck. Washroom, parking lot, and back-alley fire escape sex are now real possibilities. Among this group there lives a unicorn, who I named Paris. This pinnacle of mental will demand you do her in public, perhaps right on the bar.

  • The ability to “sketch” and ‘eyebrow licking’: The G-whaaa? Just kidding. I mastered that with no hands at twenty-five. I’m not much of a sketch artist, but I’m down for a manual manipulation audition in a washroom stall while we warm up my tongue for the eyebrow test. If all goes well, we can go to your place because I ain’t cleaning that up.

  • ‘One-night stands’, ‘off nights’, and “electricity”: Women are too caught up in attraction and not concerned enough about performance. Tall, dark, big hands, a knowing gleam in the eye, a few muscles. . . This is why the Mazda Miata and Porsche Boxster were created. They suck, but women love them. “Off nights” happen for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I don’t really care what transpires with a one-nighter. Secondly, alcohol, in just the right dosage, can make me an unparalleled stud, but getting the dosage right requires knife-edge balance. Too little could mean a quickie if she is smoking hot; especially if there was prolonged anticipation and foreplay. Too many drinks and I’ll wear us both raw in an attempt to get myself off. There is also a risk if you rock every one-nighter’s world. They will want to stick around, sometimes for months, forcing you to pull the main breaker of your electrical panel every time one comes over in an effort to convince them you’re a loser who can’t pay your hydro bill. About half of all women are not clear on the meaning of a ONE-night-stand. As far as performance forgiveness goes: I drove a Boxster once. I don’t need to drive another one to know they still suck.

  • Safety in numbers: The ‘posse’ is a group of men who go drinking to forget how much they hate women, and that is exactly what happens. Alcohol was probably invented by women. I better write that down so I can. . . Oh, look at the ass on her. She’s smiling. Game face. TicTak. Go. Right there, we just lost one. Never go to a bar alone or with just one wing-man or you might wake up with a couple of threes and have to lie to your friends about bagging a six.
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  • ‘Eye contact’ a.k.a. situational awareness: You don’t go duck hunting without surrounding your blind with floating decoys. Go talk to a seven and her friends, but keep an eye on the ten you caught checking you out.

  • Don’t tell them about yourself. “The Truth Is Out There.” and you should keep it that way in a bar. Never give Ms. Right-For-One-Night any real stalk-able details about yourself. Make small talk. Women will talk about anything. ‘So my personal trainer’s name is Brett.’ ‘Oh, I almost forgot to tell you how my ex is into lesbian porn.’ ‘What do you think of my hair? I just had it done, and my hairdresser was coming on to me. You can touch it if you want.’ ‘Have you had a ride in a new Camero?’

Only the words “blow” and “suck” registered. Okay, I’ll give you twenty minutes to stop doing that.

Men can be such jerks, right?

A few of us do it just because it’s so much fun to fire up the feisty in a woman we know. Don’t do it with one-nighters though, or you may need to put fire insurance on your Camero.

Visit my arch-nemesis, Shelby Kent-Stewart, and tell her I sent ya. Drop by for pizza by candlelight anytime.

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