One supposes that twice a century, the world is bequeathed with a man (not “man”) capable of walking into a room and giving every woman in it a spontaneous orgasm. In the twentieth century, one of those men was Prince (you can guess that the other is also another recently deceased beacon of androgyny).
He wants you
The thing with Prince wasn’t just that he exuded raw animalism, or that he was beautifully epicene/bisexual/pansexual/transcendent sexual. He also had the ability to make even the ugliest of women feel like they were fuckable. And that, you see, is the mark of a truly great man, no quotes needed. Most other “men,” on the other hand, generally have a knack for instilling their potential conquests with the notion that they’re not worth a damn. But with Prince, you knew you were “The Most Beautiful Girl In the World.” Even if it was only for a few minutes.
Even more potentially damaging to a woman’s potential for pleasure than coke dick is weed dick. And with a certain beloved holiday upon us, it’s important to remember that getting overly enthusiastic about your love of ganj and reverting to listening to Bob Marley while smoking it could put you at risk of a fate worse than missing a dick: having a limp one.
When your love of 4/20 puts your “dick” at risk
While sure, it’s great that it lowers your sperm count so that you don’t bring any of your satanic spawn into the universe, there is something to be said for the stiffness of a non-stoned wang. 1) it might give an orgasm and 2) it shows that it cares about something other than just hanging out lazily in your crusty underwear, much the way the rest of your body exists in its crusty garb. So unless you’d prefer her to stroke a penis bong rather than your actual penis, feel free to celebrate 4/20 in all its glory.
There aren’t a lot of things “men” can do, but what they should be able to is jizz pizza. Especially when handling their own ability to cum as opposed to concerning themselves with yours. The least they should be willing to provide is a delicious sampling of your favorite food in exchange for the pleasure they received, but that you did not.
And if that’s not attainable, then maybe a few alms could at least shoot from his opening so that you have money for the subway back to your hovel, where you’ll wonder why you wasted the remaining fly years your body has left on a “man” who couldn’t give you delight in even the simplest of ways. Not even a “Wow Mandy, your nude husk looks really great and I definitely appreciate the way it looks now versus how it’s going to look long after I’ve thrown you over for someone younger.” Yes, pizza and money jism would be the least he could offer.
It might be hard to believe, but the only thing worse than a “man” incapable of romance is a “man” who feigns romantic capabilities at the outset of meeting him. The kind who channels all of his “wooing” into the first month or two of knowing you, only to let it all hang out (minus a dick) once you’ve been irrevocably captivated.
Don’t trust it, bitch
Then, as he eases you into the extent of just how much he doesn’t give a fuck about you or whether or not he’s catering to your need to be enchanted at least once a week, you’ll realize you’ve become too emotionally attached to address the shift in personality. Your goddamn chemical makeup has become inextricably linked to his–the pheromones have seeped permanently into the memories you have of him when he was good to you. And now, you’re fucked–doomed to be subjected to the dicklessness as you choose not to contrast it against the version of him you first knew, the one that hinted at just the slightest inkling of a prick.
Have you ever tried to prod a dead animal in the hope that it’s still alive? (no? Maybe you’ve never driven through deer country then). That’s what it’s like to get an apathetic “man” to give a shit. A.k.a. it’s never going to happen. While the stolid unresponsiveness of a “man” might appear like an initially alluring challenge, you’ll soon feel differently when you look at yourself in the mirror and notice all the vitality has been sucked out of you.
Apathy “Man”: the “man” who kills you softly with not giving a shit
Still, you’ll think to yourself, I’ve put so much time in now, surely just a little bit more will lead him to show a modicum of emotion in the form of an expression that goes beyond stoicism or a sentence that goes beyond two words. It won’t. He is content in his deflection of attachment, happy to scrape by on a minimum of involvement. Plus, once his apathy gives you that final soft stab, you’ll be the one blamed for not sticking it out. It’s a strategy filled with subterfuge and a dick missing, but it works. Just ask yourself if you can handle the slow death.
In the hipster haven of Williamsburg, playing “old school” board games like Monopoly is a natural par for the course when wanting to recapture the experience of youth. However, a certain “man” has taken it to the next level with the creation of a Williamsburg-specific sort of Monopoly called, oh so originally, Burgopoly.
Play at your own risk of losing a dick
Rife with references that only a Williamsburg renter (and therefore overpaid “man” who wanted to move to the neighborhood to feel vaguely in touch with a “fun” environment other than his office), Burgopoly allows “men” that rare opportunity to buy entities like the Berry Street Lofts and Smorgasburg. Because why not put your one-sided pursuits for more money to good use in the form of a so-called hobby?
Verboten has long been a hub of douche baggery in the Williamsburg nexus, but it was the kind that didn’t seem overly menacing until it was recently revealed that the owners, a married couple, engaged in rampant displays of racism and sexual harassment. While there is a woman at play in the co-owning of this den of sin (and not the good kind), the “man” married to her might have done well to abandon ship–because who you marry and go into business with says a lot about you.
How can anyone even tell what color you are in the dark anyhow?
What’s worse, maybe he only married her because of her ability to run things in the savage sort of way that he himself couldn’t go fully in on. While reports of his wife boasting about having more affairs than him is all very evolved, there’s something to be said for the “man” who isn’t with a shrew, or at least is able to tame one.
We understand. Equality means a woman pays for her shit and a “man” pays for his. And that’s fine, one supposes. ‘Tis the price a female must literally pay in order to prove the general inanity of “men.” But when blokes start showin’ they ass by suddenly only getting metaphorically erect at the mention of your ability to buy him something if it means cajoling him to go out, that’s when it’s time to move on to another “man” who might not be so flagrant with his George Costanza-ness.
The standard excuse
Of course, he’ll try to convince you that it’s your fault for always wanting to do expensive things like, you know, perform the basic human function of drinking alcohol and eating, but you can’t let his line of reasoning dupe you. The only truly broke people in America are the ones who have to ride the bus in Los Angeles because they can’t afford to make minimal car payments for the next million years. He has no excuse for ejaculating at your offer to pay. And also, you shouldn’t have to buy a “man’s” time (unless it’s Jon Voight’s in Midnight Cowboy). If he wants to be with you/enjoys the same activities as you, it doesn’t need to cost you.