“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).