Most of the time, I’m dissatisfied with the labor involved in male/female interaction. If I were a rational person, I wouldn’t engage in what people call “dating” at all. I barely do as it is.
Going on dates, especially in the beginning, is like some kind of cruel mind-reading game that only Johnny Depp has ever won. Also, you have to write the guidebook, and you have to pay for the privilege. And then, when you’re done, they burn it in front of you while showing you a movie about how you’re an asshat. All so you can get your dick sucked by the same person twice in a row.
To be honest, one of my biggest fears – maybe my second biggest fear after the Mormons being right – is that all the girls I’ve dated or slept with will somehow find each another and form an organization. I don’t know why they would do that, but then again I never received an explanation as to why any of them did anything they did in the first place.
It’s a big consolation to know that the lady-related misadventures in my past are not public knowledge. I mean, it’s all in my personal record – and by that I mean it’s in the Drizzle’s mental catalogue of my exploits – but in order to get at it, you’d have to find the Drizzle, and he is hard to find. And even if you found him, that motherfucker knows damn well not to break Man Code again after last time (<- threat).
Nevertheless, I still feel like keeping all these things on the DL may be a futile effort. It’s the look that you get after a while, like they know about all the shitty presents, missed cues, late arrivals, baseless accusations, douchebaggy drunken nights, and underwhelming sex in your past. They have a technique for finding out the gist of all this stuff. Apparently, it’s called “shit-testing.” And I’m going to have to adjust my behavior as a result of my awareness of this.
Shit-testing, according to some skeevy people on the internet, is when a girl asks you a question intended to give you pause, make you uncomfortable, or otherwise throw you off your game. It’s a way for them to establish a dynamic in which you are lucky to be out with them and should therefore do whatever they say. Fool that I am, I never imagined that this familiar practice might constitute passive-aggressive behavior. Now that it’s in my head that way, I’m considering changing my reactions to it in the following manner:
• She asks me, “How many women have you slept with?”
What I might have said before: “I don’t know, a few.”
What I will say now: “How am I supposed to remember that? …Nice tits.”
• She says, “I’m fat.”
What I might have said before: “No, you’re not fat. I think you’re beautiful.”
What I will say now: Nothing, I will just hold up a picture of Artie Lange and then, slowly, a ThighMaster brochure.
• She tells me, “Buy me a drink.”
What I might have said before: “Okay, I need another beer anyway.”
What I will say now: “Put me in the movies. Oh, wait, I thought we were listing things people would do if we were more attractive.”
• Later: She asks me, “Would you still love me if…” [insert horrific incident which results in her irreversible physical mangling]
What I might have said before: “Of course.”
What I will say now: “No, quadros make me physically ill. Better watch that spinal cord.” Then I will karate-chop her in the spine. Hai-ya!
If you’re a girl that knows me, maybe right now you’re thinking, “But Staker, you’re already such an asshole. Why would you act that way?” And to that, I would reply, “Listen, my laundry isn’t going to wash itself.”
In all seriousness, I love the female sex. I really, really do. There have even been a few girls who have managed to capture my attention for relatively long periods of time. To me, their unique way of bitching you out – without you even knowing it, if they want – is yet another reason to love them. But I’m no match for that kind of expertise. I have to hold my own somehow, you know?
I really hope I can still get laid after this.