There are many “men,” particularly those who live in Williamsburg or were born in New York, who have this unbelievably false sense of being amazing and/or somehow special. This imagined feeling of superiority generally stems not only from no one telling them that their shit is basic, but, worse, the fact that there are those who bolster these “men’s” self-inflated opinions of themselves.
“Hi, I’m John Basic.”
The “man” who is delusional enough to think he’s great, but in actuality utterly normal, doesn’t make it happen all on his own. It starts from a very early age, usually caused by his equally delusional mother filling his head with ideas of grandeur. Because one’s early years are so formative, the “man” as “boy” gets it ingrained in his head that he truly is fantastic, when, in reality, he is a total basic. Hence, he lives in Williamsburg and will invariably shop at the J. Crew that’s now open on Wythe.
I don’t really know where “men” got this notion that making noises at women as they walk by is conducive to getting a resounding, “Yes, I’ll fuck you!” in return. Maybe it stems from their lack of conversation skills or their general animalistic nature. Like so many things involving getting to the root of the male psyche, it’s a mystery.
Don’t holla at yo girl
Perhaps a synapse in their brain just explodes when they see something they want to fuck and they can’t control themselves, acting like a dog as they call you like one. Though this tends to be rare during the daytime in Williamsburg, when all the “polite society” is still out with their strollers, the vibe tends to change at night. With the fall of the darkness comes the fall of the veneer of being decorous. “Men” feel comfortable calling out to your like you’re their goddamn domestic animal. But it’s okay, because you’re only going to keep walking away, leaving them to feel foolish in their attempts. Then again, we are dealing with the dickless sort, so they may not know what it means to be ashamed about anything.
Many “men” of this generation have trouble forming sentences or carrying on a conversation at any length past the three minute mark (a personal best). This could be due to the common theories of too much extended time staring at various screens for video game or porn purposes or simply because grunting is their most effective means of communication.
Even Jesus can’t cure the muteness happening in Williamsburg
Some “men” may argue that they’re so quiet because women are so loud, sucking up all the air out of the room with their constant chatter, but this just isn’t the truth. Though admittedly, the wives of Williamsburg do love to prattle on about the latest garment they just bought or the chicest new restaurant they ate at. Be that as it may, the reason women feel compelled to be so verbose is a direct result of a “man’s” conversational ability rivaling that of a dullard’s. So if you really want to get a lady wet, start talking. But don’t bloviate. In that case, you might as well just blow.
Even if you cross the initial hurdle of finding a “man” who eats pussy as often as he should, the next step is finding one who doesn’t treat your delicate flesh as though it’s contaminated (though of course it might be). Contrary to the common desire of “men” to want women to become as instantaneously wet as Lolita, getting to that point takes a certain amount of handling and the illusion of giving a shit about that specific vag. Bearing the psychological complexities of an actual human being, expecting to make a vag wet by either 1) not touching/licking it or 2) appearing utterly disgusted while doing the aforementioned (either through facial expression or disinterested hand or tongue motions) is not realistic.
This is how women look and feel when they’re getting head from a “man” who handles their vag like vermin
Let us take a moment to review the sort of “man” who is generally repulsed by a vagina: gay ones. While many women will be the first to admit that a pussy isn’t the most pleasant with regard to aesthetic and odor, it is also not the most foul creation ever to be rendered into existence. So stop treating it as such. Requests for a woman to take a shower before you eat her out will result in complete rescindment of the sexual offer, as it indicates you are something of a bitch who can’t handle and/or treat the pussy with the respect it’s due. Entreaties to shave or wax are justifiable, though not when your reaction to the orifice continues to be one of sheer revulsion. So as you work through your contempt for the V, you may also need to work through the possibility that your sexuality is a 6 on the Kinsey scale.
While some women are occasionally duped into believing certain “men” are perfect, there is, invariably no such thing, and some fatal, unspeakable flaw always lies beneath the surface. In Williamsburg, essentially the Stepford of Brooklyn (along with Park Slope, but for non-straight people), perfection is sought to be obtained through the ideal apartment overlooking the waterfront and the ideal non-mentally exerting job at a startup nearby.
Adonis does not exist, especially not in Williamsburg.
“Men” who fool women into believing that they’re infallible on the physical and/or personality front always have something horrendous up their sleeve, like being obsessed with their parents or not eating pussy. If you find yourself across from a “man” over a candlelit dinner at an expensive restaurant like Zenkichi, run the fuck out of there because he’s probably a serial killer (but actually wait until the dinner’s over to take advantage of the perfectness of him paying for your food).
You would think there’s nothing worse than a “man” who refuses to engage in any form of chivalrous act, but alas, there is: The “man” who overtly engages in chivalry with a look of sheer reluctance and disgust in his eyes. You’ve seen it. The one who gets to the door of the Wythe entrance first, sees you approaching, rolls his eyes, quickly forces a smile and assures, “After you.”
No “man” can bear to hearken back to the Victorian-era custom of throwing his cape over a puddle so a woman can cross
If you’re texting with a question mark, you’re screaming Tinder date. At best, OKCupid troller. “Do you want to get together?”, “Hello?”, “What’s up?” and “Nude pics?” are all the types of phrases that end with a question mark. Therefore, it is to be sure that if you’re texting anything that requires a question mark, you’re probably asking something utterly dickless. Though, in most cases, “men” don’t favor proper grammatical use at all as it involves too much effort and meticulousness, the question mark does make a surprising and frequent cameo with matters pertaining to sexual pursuit.
Stop asking questions, start making assumptions and assertions
Even so-called pleasant questions like, “Wanna go to dinner?” smack of a “man” who doesn’t know what he wants and can’t offer any suggestions that are a worth damn. So if you want to improve your standing within the Williamsburg texting/sexting community, do yourself a favor and start using a period–at least as regularly as women have them.
Perhaps when you’re a “man” trying to pull out all the stops for the mistress you’re trying to finagle, booking a room at The Wythe seems like the height of sophistication–a grand way to impress someone who hasn’t been around the Williamsburg block. And maybe, if your woman of choice is anything like you, she would be impressed by the custom made furniture and wallpaper or the lack of room service or the “locally sourced” mini bar.
That don’t impress her much
But if you’re trying to impress a woman who knows a “man” with a dick from one without, you’re going to have to do much better. The Wythe is for commoners aspiring to be nouveau riche, peppered with the occasional celebrity in an attempt to make it seems like it bears even a remote resemblance to the Chateau Marmont. If you really want to make a statement that says, “I care,” opt for the Ty Warner Penthouse at the Four Seasons.
When you’re at a bar, wearing your whorish Forever 21 clothes and being both annoyed when a “man” hits on you and annoyed when he doesn’t, there’s nothing worse and more triumphant than when he finally buys you a drink. It’s nice for the obvious reasons in that you’ve just saved some money for the evening, but it’s also horrendous because now you’re, in his eyes, automatically beholden.
Another dilemma with being bought a drink
There are a number of ways to approach this situation once you’ve quickly guzzled the drink: 1) You can run out the door and go to the next bar, 2) You can entertain the “man’s” flirtations until someone else swoops you away or 3) You can fuck him. The third one is not typically recommended when you’re past the age of 20 as it connotes sluttiness rather than youthful naïveté. It’s also not recommended because if, as a “man,” you need to rely on buying drinks for women (cheap, shitty beer/shots from Lucky Dog, Skinny Dennis, etc., one might add), then you’re probably not very interesting or charming to begin with. At least start by saying something that infers you have magnetism beyond your wallet.
The “man” who doesn’t walk next to you is probably the sort of fellow who either 1) thrives on making you feel like shit or 2) is so selfish that he lacks the consideration of a woman in heels. If a woman takes the time and effort to look good by not succumbing to the quitter’s cult of flats, you should at least have the decency to be proud to walk next to her.
Why is it so hard to understand that one can’t walk in a rapid pace in this shit?
Because most “men” who aren’t drag queens could never understand the challenges of walking from a heeled vantage point, an inability to walk next to a woman, no matter how sluggish her pace, exhibits a total lack of empathy. Granted, the well-paved streets of Williamsburg don’t have as many roadblocks as, say, the Meatpacking District (Wburg’s granddad/progenitor), but, still, show some fucking respect by slowing your goddamn roll.