Men Who Post Pictures With Their “Little Nieces” (Especially Around the Holidays).

Something within each shady fuck”boy” of a “man” is aware of an antiquated tactic that really doesn’t (at least not anymore) appeal to the evolved woman who no longer wishes to have children in the current wisdom of knowing full well that there are zero rewards to having them (unless you’re rich and want to pass your “legacy” name and money down to subsequent generations, Hilton-style).

Yet, because a “man” remains primitive in his approach to women no matter how many apps appear in the proverbial meat market of “online dating” (I use this in quotes merely because it’s an obsolescent term in the way that social media is becoming), he thinks that catering to her “biological need” for a child and being able to envision a “man” who can be a “good father” (which, these days, means being a stay-at-home dad with an occasional freelance graphic design gig) is going to work. But since the “man” in question who would use an unwitting relation as a baiting method would never actually have a child himself (unless he finally turns fifty and finds an Asian twenty years his junior), the only truss he can use to support the false impression of being “likable” “Dad material” is a niece. With the holiday season upon us through January 2nd, the calculated “man” knows full well that there’s no greater opportunity for press and promotion than this time of year–a chance to post plenty of photos with niece(s) and stock up on a plethora of material for future profile curating options.

Fortunately for this classic and artless fuck”boy” strategy, many a woman of the Missing A Clit variety falls for the yarn, thinking how “sweet” this “guy” must be to while away his free hours with children. As for the rest of us, asshole, we know you don’t give a fuck about your “little niece”–are merely using her as a prop for pussy. Would probably fuck your own kin as a matter of fact if incest and pedophilia weren’t so frowned upon. But keep telling yourself you’re not the creepy uncle.

Men Who Are Scandalized by The Sight of What They Wish Could Be Their Own Genitalia.

It never ceases to amaze that anyone can be shocked in the current year we live in, as we hurtle evermore through time under the presumed guise of collective acceptance. Yes, 2017, when two ugly fat men control power from the West to the East and you’re deemed a dinosaur of anti-progress if you still identify concretely as anything. Fittingly, one “man” living on the Lower East Side has taken offense to the existence of a freshly painted mural that he has a ringside seat to every time he opens his window. Painted, appropriately, without balls by Swedish artist Carolina Falkholt on the day many need the cheer of dick most of all–Christmas Eve–its size is no doubt also threatening to the few straight “men” still left in the borough.

Accordingly, the reaction of feeling a combination of shame and outrage and then blaming it on being “not good for the kids” is an overt projection of one’s own issues. With his extremely small and useless panisse. Sure, it would be awful and scandalizing to open your window to the sight of a veiny, mammoth wang baiting you if you yourself had no penis to speak of. But that’s your own crying-for-therapy issue. That’s why it’s a shame someone like Samantha Jones or Dr. Ruth isn’t willing to live in a tenement on the LES.

Men Who Think Their Erection Is Your Issue.

“I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face,” I say as, once again, this “man” tries to insert himself in me even though I’ve already given him the requisite orgasm for the night. That might turn some “men” on as images of most of the plotline for Californication are conjured, but in this case I mean it in the strictly threatening and non-sexually evocative way. The polite protocol, as far as initial sexual encounters go, is to allow the “female” you’ve penetrated to roll over and repose for as long as she sees fit. If she’s generous enough to anoint your dick into her vag in the morning, you may count your lucky stars that she hasn’t simply up and slinked out wordlessly.

What “men” must learn to understand is that they are owed nothing when a woman goes home with them. They must also learn to masturbate in a bathroom–instead of Kevin Spacey in American Beauty style–in the presence of a dormant lady. And sure, a “man” might think that because a female has consented–in her loosened state–to accompany him back to his shared abode that her body is somehow a free-for-all regardless of what level of interest she exhibits after a few unsatisfying thrusts. For yes, she might have found you desirable–endearing even–at the bar, but sentiments and opinions change once the environment does. And to be sure, a girl can tend to feel far more tired once she’s dragged her husk up the multiple flights of stairs leading to your shanty. So please, just because you have an erection and there happens to be a body next to you, don’t assume that said body owes you the alleviation of your boner. Unless you want it bopped on the head like a field mouse. Because nobody–but nobody–fucks with a woman’s circadian rhythm unless it’s the tooth fairy putting some much needed cash under the pillow (not to be confused with on the dresser, where hooker dough is left).

Men Who Milk You of the Best Years of Your Twenties & Discard You Just in Time for Them to End.

“Men” are constantly questioning others about why it is they seem to get such a bad rap, are so frequently vilified by “overly emotional” women. To put it in the sharpest focus, “men” are mongers of youth. Not of having it themselves, but ensuring that those with vaginas around them do. It’s not that they don’t value an occasional witticism now and again for “entertainment” value (as women aren’t valued for their intellect unless it’s repurposed as being what the British would condescendingly call “rather clever”). But what they cherish above all is taut skin, an easily moldable mind–or at least one that can bend easily to his own interests and will–and a pussy that’s index finger girth when tunneling through it with his own pencil thin dick.

A “man” can find this easily in a woman who is circa twenty-four, “catching her,” as it were at just a young enough age to really infiltrate her psyche and fuck her up on a permanent basis if and when he decides to leave her after all those sonnets spouted about loving her always and never dreaming of abandoning her. Two against the world and the world against two, that sort of bullshit. But right around the time twenty-eight rolls around for her, the “man” starts to shy away a little bit–for twenty-eight is an age that’s not too suspicious to kick a woman back into the now much shallower dating pool. Twenty-nine would be far too cruel, leaving her no wiggle room at all for her to pass herself off with the sort of carefreeness that can only come with twentiesdom.

As the closeness she once thought was unbreakable begins to crumble before her, with flimsy excuses in the vein of him needing to “find” himself passing for adequate reasoning in his mind, she will be forced with the heavy reconciliation of being sent into the firing squad of her thirties with nothing to show for it but psychological ruin.

The “man” who has cast her out under the false premise of wanting to “explore” himself (meaning allow his faux dick to explore other vaginas) will suddenly “feel comfortable” being in a relationship soon after–and oh, look at that, it just so happens to be a twenty-four year old again. Must be nice to have that sort of elasticity–in stark contrast to your ex-girlfriend’s now inelastic skin thanks to all the fine years of her prime you wasted only to toss her out like non-reusable refuse.