In Defense Of Breast

Breast. Guys love them, undeniably. Just about any heterosexual male would easily put looking at breast at the top of their list of favorite things to do, just slightly behind playing with them. But why? Why the infatuation with big, round, full breast? That beautiful, curvaceous swell, heaving slightly in rhythm to her breath, while the perfect nipple stands….sorry. Got distracted.

To the female, a male’s obsession with mammary glands may seem odd, if not extreme. Where does the attraction stem from? Is it just part of an Oedipus complex? Appreciation of symmetry? Is it a learned behavior, or are we just sex-starved idiots? Maybe even a mixture of all of the above?

You might be surprised, but the reason guys like breast is because we have to. We have no choice, it’s encoded in our being and nothing can change it. It’s not TV, girls in skimpy outfits, or sexist beer advertisements that fuel our attraction to round things. I can promise you this, it’s not learned behavior. You could take a male baby and leave him in the woods to be raised by squirrels. He could live his entire life never seeing another human being, let alone a developed female. You could keep him ignorant of the existence of breast, and it still wouldn’t matter. As soon as he hits puberty, he’s going to leave the tree, leave his adopted squirrel family behind, and venture to the city looking for a strip club with his fists full of nuts (so to speak) to put down their g-strings. Ignorant of the appeal of the opposite sex’s desirability or not, it’s in his nature. Why?

It’s in our DNA. You might as well ask why we eat, or breath air. Procreation is one of man’s basic survival instincts. Food, shelter, sex. Deep down, buried between “Eat to live” and “Beat everything that challenges you over the head with a blunt instrument” is, “Get every able bodied female pregnant to insure your genes are passed on to another generation.”

Yes, modern society has changed and evolved. Our needs and have become different, but our genes don’t give a damn about over population, women’s lib, equal rights, or any of the other accomplishments civilization has worked so hard to achieve. Even the most educated, well learned, intelligent male still has that instinct screaming at him daily, “Quick, have sex with her, and her, and her, and him, and…wait, scratch that last one.”

The fixation with breast comes from the survival of the species. Early man worshiped full figured statues of large breasted fertility gods because they understood where life came from and who was truly responsible for their tribe’s survival. It came not only from impregnating the female tribe members and keeping them safe from harm, but being sure to “knock up that one with the big breast, she can nurse a lot of kids.” A robust, healthy chested female could not only bare and nurse many offsprings, but also protect them, allowing the primitive man to go out hunting, knowing the female was capable of taking care of everything on the home front.

When I was eight, my brother came home on shore leave from the Navy. I was digging through his duffle bag when he was gone because, well, it’s what eight year olds do. While rummaging through his belongings, I stumbled across his pack of nudie playing cards. Each card featuring a picture of a different nude female. Up until that moment, I had never seen an exposed breast. My boys hadn’t dropped yet, and puberty and testosterone were still years away. Even without the hormone’s I was still mesmerized by the deck. It wasn’t coming from below the waist, it was that part of human instinct kicking in. Eight year olds don’t get hard ons, but I’d dig that pack out every chance I could get and just stare at their breast, not even understanding what the appeal was.

Now, that being said, yes the urge is natural. But we also haven’t put down thousands upon thousands of years of human history to be complete primitive animals concerning the subject. The instinct is there, but we’ve also evolved enough to have more refined taste in the matter.

Most guys are still close enough to our early ancestors in development to have the same taste as Bill. His quote; “I don’t see what all the fuss is over girls with triple D breast. Not when there’s triple E’s, F’s, and G’s.” While the animal side demands larger, a civilized mind can have more refined taste.

Now, myself, I’m all about the itty bitty titties. Numerous reasons. The first being my ability to see the big picture. I like nice little butts more then big tits and the two seldom coincide together naturally. That, and big titties now tends to mean droopage and a big ass later down the road. Real tits rock. Secondly, I just don’t have the same large breasted fetish most guys do. I think it comes in part from never having been breast-feed. My mom’s defense is that I was “allergic” to her milk. Honestly, I think it was just because she didn’t like me much.

To me a mouthful and a handful are more than enough to make me happy though. Small nipples, all the better. Though no preference of personal taste matters if I just like the girl. I’ve dated mostly small breasted girls, but have went out with a few girls with large ta-ta’s. Given the choice though – I’ll go for flat and smart over big breasted and stupid.

Final word to females, no matter how small your breast are, as long as you show anything resembling cleavage, guy’s will notice you. You’re appealing to his animal nature, which doesn’t take much. It’s hard not to notice, on pretty much all the social networks, that the more flesh a girl shows in her pictures, the more males she tends to have on her friends list. When hunting for a man, what you capture will depend on the bait you use. If you use your tits to capture a guy, don’t be surprised when he later leaves you for a bigger pair once yours start sagging.

Sex Slaves

So a few years back I was hanging out at a bar with a few friends of mine. We were talking about a girl we knew, and I mentioned, “I don’t like her. She’s too bossy.” As soon as I said it, everyone stopped talking and gave me that accusational look. You know the one, the “I can’t believe you just said that” look. No? I guess it’s just me then. I get that look all the damn time. I swear, almost every time I open my mouth. I mean, excuse the hell out of me, I didn’t realize that it was so damn taboo to talk about porn during Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I’d realize that type of thing was a faux pas if you guys had gotten rid of the home videos of my own damn conception so I couldn’t accidentally stumble across them while trying to find where you hid my Christmas presents. You ever stop to think that watching them might kind of fuck me up? That maybe it might not be the healthiest thing in the world for a ten year old to see? Huh? Sorry…start over.

So a few years back I was hanging out at a bar with a few friends of mine. We were talking about a girl we knew, and I mentioned, “I don’t like her. She’s too bossy.” As soon as I said it, everyone stopped talking and gave me that accusational look. You know the one, the “I can’t believe you just said that” look. I immediately defended myself. “I am not bossy. I’m just…good…at convincing people…to do what I want them to do…with threats of violence if needed.”

But it got me to thinking that, ok, maybe I am the domineering type. Just a little. So I did what any rational person would do when confronted with a revelation about themselves. I sat down and started journaling, giving serious thought and consideration about this new information; what it said about me, and how I could use it to make myself a better person - both for myself, and everyone I come in contact with.

You didn’t believe that did you? Good. No, I got pissed, got drunk, probably punched someone before drawing the rational conclusion that maybe I should get into a BDSM relationship (for those of you who don’t know that’s Bondage & Discipline/Domination & Submission/Sadism & Masochism). I’m obviously a Dom. I like things done my way and I’m really good at giving orders. I’m definitely not a Sub. I’ve been told repeatedly that I have issues with authority and it’s pretty hard to get me to do anything I don’t want to – that and I hate bossy people. So yeah, that type of life style might fit my personality. Especially after I found there was a subsection of the Subs called Slaves.

I join a few sites and start looking for a female Sub/Slave in my area. I was very selective in my choice, I had to be picky, didn’t want no ugly slave. After a bit of looking I found an attractive girl that caught my interest, and of course wanted me – as any female in their right mind would. We corresponded a bit, sent a few emails to start getting to know each other, and it was looking like it was going to happen. We got to the part about our Dom/Sub relationship was going to be like, and she wanted to know how she, as a Slave, could serve me as her Master. Keeping in mind that the more domineering the Master, the happier the slave is, I sent her a list.

“The dishes need done, the floors need swept, the kitty litter needs cleaned and the rug vacuumed. The lawn will need to be done at least once a week, and windows monthly. I expect a cup of coffee waiting for me when I get up, dinner when I get home and a bath run for me nightly. The bedding will need to be washed every other week, or as needed.” The list went on and on like that for about two or three pages.

Apparently they’re not that kind of slave. It’s all supposed to be all sexual, part of bedroom play. Spankings and making them stand in the corner and stuff like that. Trust me, I was going to fuck her too; I had every intention of that. I was just trying to be courteous considering how tired I figured she was going to be the first few weeks catching up with all the housework. I thought it would be rude to make her please me in bed after hours and hours of cleaning. I mean, it’s kind of stupid to give her sexual orders in bed that don’t get anything done while the kitty litters over flowing.

And don’t get me wrong; from a sexual point of view it’s a pretty cool concept. I guess. It’s just that the apartment is a mess…

How To Prevent A Guy From Cheating

Guys cheat. It’s part of what they do. “But why,” you ask. “Am I not good enough? What more can I do to make him happy?” Nothing, you’ve done everything you can and probably more. It has nothing to do with you. Deep down every guy wants to fuck every beautiful girl in the world, and some of the ugly ones too - if they have a nice rack. It’s in their nature. Like it or not, humans are animals. Animals that paint and write songs and all too often wear horribly out dated clothing, but animals still the same. Just like women are prone to biological clocks going off, guys have the need to impregnate every female they come in contact with to be sure his genes are passed down for another generation. It’s as natural as a domesticated cat sharpening their claws on the couch to be better prepared for the dinner it never has to catch since it now has human slaves to provide it’s every need. It’s a natural instinct, and you’re never going to be able to keep a guy from wanting to have sex with other women.

Now, a more evolved guy will be aware of these needs and understand that, while they are natural, it doesn’t mean they need to be acted on. If you’re in a relationship with someone a bit lower on the evolutionary scale, being aware of this tendency will allow you to help compensate for his more basic urges. Just like teaching a dog not to piddle on the rug, you’ll never keep him from thinking about it, but there are ways to prevent him from actually acting on his instincts.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. One of the most sure fire ways to keep a guy from cheating is to keep him well fed. “Because if he’s well feed and happy, he’ll be less likely to wander?” No, that would be silly. You’re thinking of stray dogs, guys aren’t that complicated. What I mean is fatten him up a bit. Actually, a lot. The goal is to get him fat enough that other girls wouldn’t want to fuck him. When he starts sweating butter is a good sign you can lay off the fattening foods. Once other women start wrinkling up their noses when he walks by, you can be secure that he is yours, and only yours. The downside is, you might not want to take him to bed either. Or if you do, be sure you get on top. There is also a possibility that once he gets so fat he can’t get laid for free, he’ll start spending all your money on whores.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Think lower. As mentioned, a well-feed dog is less likely to stray. Guys are dogs who need to be feed another way. I’m not saying it’s easy to keep it interesting for both of you in the bedroom. But would you rather put on the sexy French maid outfit every now and then to keep him happy, or worry about him screwing the actual maid while you’re out? Even more disturbing if your maid happens to be a male immigrant named Manuel.

Mark your territory. This doesn’t work for guys when it comes to girls, mostly because other guys don’t care what the girl was doing an hour before, as long as she’s hot, but leave your mark. Before he walks out the door, heading towards the bar, latch on to his neck like a vacuum cleaner and give him a hickey. Big hickies are a great way to keep other women from being interested. Wedding rings can be taken off; the same can’t be said for hickies. There might be some temptation to just brand your name on him, but I think you’ll find most guys far more interested in making out than having burning iron applied to their skin.

Tell the truth about your sister or best friend. Embarrassing secrets are a good way to keep a guy from being interested in the attractive females he meets through you. Years ago, I met my girlfriend’s sister. The sister and I hit it off immediately and had a lot in common. On the drive home, I mentioned, “Your sister’s really cool and pretty.” My girlfriend shrugged and said, “Yeah, but she gets around. She got VD from her last boyfriend. You should’ve seen it, she swelled up and it looked like she had a football between her legs. And you’d never believe how much puss there was.” All of a sudden her sister wasn’t pretty anymore.

Keep him entertained. Instead of complaining about some of his lame hobbies, encourage him. Yes, it is annoying watching him spend hours playing video games, watching sports, working on cars, or whatever pointless thing he enjoys, but think about this. All the time he wastes on his hobby is time he’s not spending trying to cheat. Kind of makes you want to buy him a new game, doesn’t it?

Buy him porn. Don’t complain about it, it serves a purpose. It gives him a means of cheating on you in his mind, which he’s going to do anyways, and less likely to actually find a real life alternative. Going out of town for a few days and you want to make sure he doesn’t stray? Leave him a few pornos and some hand lotion. Not only does he now think he has the coolest girlfriend in the world; it also accomplishes some thing else. By now you should know that two things happen after a guy cums. He gets less stupid about getting laid when the need is filled, and he gets lazy. Almost all guys need sleep after cumming, something women always complain about. Use our weaknesses for your benefit. Leave him alone with the porn and he’s going to masturbate, then fall asleep. It may not be what you want him to do, but it helps keep him out of trouble when you’re not there. One word of warning, don’t blame me if you’re dating one of the few guys with enough energy to get up and look for more after blowing his load.

Reward him when he does something that makes you happy. Guys are fairly oblivious when it comes to making women happy, you have to condition them subtly to let them know not only when they do something wrong (we always know when we’ve pissed off our girlfriends – we just usually don’t know why) as well as when they do something wrong. Guys would be far more opt to go watch chick flicks if we’re guaranteed a hand job somewhere in there.

So there you have it. Understand a guy’s needs (all two of them) and you’ll be able to keep him from straying. Yes, guys suck. But what are your other options? Sleeping with women? If for some reason what you read here at The Truth About Your Boyfriend does turn you off of guys and onto women, nothing says “thank you” like nude pictures of you and your new lesbian lover.

Guys Fix Things

I’ll give you fair warning, today I decided to write about the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard Bill say. Considering that almost everything that comes out of Bill’s mouth is offensive, you might not want to read this one.


Guys fix things, that’s what we do. We constantly seek ways of fixing that which is broken. While this idiosyncrasy is helpful when it comes to broken chairs and cars, there’s a downside in the fact that in a guy’s mind what also classifies under the “needs to be fixed” category is pretty much anything they don’t understand.

The closest male in my family is my brother who is nearly a decade older than me. My brother was a bit of a jock, so he tended to see the world from the football field where he spent most of his teen years. He moved out as soon as he was old enough and we didn’t see each other for a few years. When he returned he was a bit confused and upset that his little brother had not exactly following in his footsteps. My brother was an athlete and liked to do whatever the hell it is that jocks do. Johnny on the other hand was more of the drunken hoodlum type and the closest I ever got to athletics was starting a fire in the middle of the football field one night while drunk. I had long hair, earrings well before they were vogue, and listened to music. Behavior that was unknown to my brother and therefore strange and in need of being “fixed.” A project he started within a few minutes of seeing me for the first time since I’d hit my teens.

Brother – surveys my room, Led Zeppelin posters, cassette tapes, empty bottles of booze. “Where are your playboys?”
Johnny – “I don’t have any.”
Brother – “You don’t have any playboys? Why not?”
Johnny – “I’ve got a girlfriend. Why look at pictures of food when you’re already eating?”

I was later told by our mother that my brother was worried that I was gay. I liked all the things that guys are supposed to, but not in the way that he was familiar with, so the logical conclusion was, I might be a homosexual. Like that was going to happen. It’s not like anything even resembling homosexual leanings weren’t scared out of me nearly ten years before when, at the age of eight, I walked into my brother’s room and found him masturbating into a gym sock. I stood in shock, trying to figure out why he was naked and strangling his sock while he screamed at me hysterically to shut the door, thus long since having “cured” me of any “gayness.” Not only did he assure I wasn’t going to be gay, but he also created an irrational fear of sock monkeys I have to this day.

But back to my teens. After my mom mentioned my brother’s concerns, he later stopped by and, with an awkward “here,” handed over a grocery bag full of playboys. All kidding aside, it was almost a sweet gesture in its own offensive way. In his mind he gave me his playboys so his little brother “wouldn’t be gay anymore.” It’s touching and a shame that Norman Rockwell never did a painting of it.

I have no doubt that, years later, when I moved in with a tall blonde model that my brother felt responsible. “He’d be sucking dick now if I hadn’t given him my girly magazines.” The pride most likely dissipated a bit when she kept cheating on me, but that’s a different story.

So guys try to fix or find solutions for things that confuse them. Which brings us to Bill. Years ago I was listening to Bill gripe about his girlfriend at the time and her taste in music. Specifically female artist that wanted to sing about something more than dressing up pretty to make their man happy, then make him dinner. I think the artist he was irritated with at the time was Fiona Apple.

Bill – “…so damned uppity! You know what she needs? She needs more cock, that’s what she needs. I’d like to cornhole her, seriously. Just ram her up the ass for hours, beating her head against the headboard of the bed. I bet if I could do that, I could fuck the feminist right out of her.”
Johnny – “That’s…that’s an interesting hypothesis. You should see if you can get a government grant to fund your research.”

Helpful Hints For Bachelors

This will be the first installment of articles concentrating on helping out the single guy, all the bachelors out there. Passing on tips we here at the TAYB have picked up from years of bachelorhood (yes, we are single. Can you believe it?). Little tips to help you around the house to free up time to concentrate on the important things in life; like sleeping and playing video games. Enjoy.

As single guys, we all know the worst part of being single (ok, the second worse) is house work. Guys hate it. As tempting as it would be to just let the trash pile up on the floor, chances are that one day – if just by accident – you may actually be entertaining a member of the opposite sex and, for some reason, they just don’t think that old pizza boxes and empty beer bottles offer the same je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere that you do. You have to keep your apartment at least relatively clean, and let’s face it, your mom’s only going to fall for that whole ‘inviting her over to chat knowing full well she’ll clean up while she’s there’ ploy so many times. So what’s a guy to do?

For starters, get a dog. A dog offers many features a single guy can’t live with out. It’s a companion, it guards your stuff, and it’s a never ending source of amusement when you blow pot smoke in its face or pouring a half finished beer into its water dish (not that we would ever condone such behavior). More importantly, a dog offers two qualities that guys can’t live with out.

It’s like having a live in maid. Dogs will eat anything. Do you have old left-overs you need to dispose of but the garbage disposal is broken and you really can’t be bothered with taking the trash out before it starts smelling and that weird mold starts growing in the kitchen again? Give it to the dog, he’ll eat it. Don’t want to clean up the milk and cereal you spilled on the floor in the morning while hung over? The dog will take care of that for you; you don’t even have to ask. No time to do dishes? Just leave them on the floor awhile; the dog will take care of that for you too. In fact, pretty much anything you want to get rid of, just drop it on the floor and the dog will eat it. Man’s best friend indeed.

More importantly, chicks love dogs. Dogs are chick magnets. Take your dog to the park; chicks will be all over you. In fact, we guarantee that if you get a dog, you will get laid *. I had a dog for a while, and I got laid all the damn time. Every day! Most of the time I was getting laid two or three times a day. I’ve never gotten laid as much as I did when I had a dog. And the places I got laid, you just wouldn’t believe. I was getting laid in every room in the apartment; in the kitchen, in the front room, right there on the bedroom floor. I got laid in the park, right there with everyone watching! I’d go so far to say that I got laid so many times while I had that dog that I thought if I had to get laid one more time I’d get sick.

There you have it guys, go to the human society now and pick up a stray. And every time you get laid, it will be your dog’s way of saying “thank you.”

* English is a very versatile language, each word's meaning subjective to the user's intent. Just as slang can change the potential definition of a word, one can be free to assign whatever interpretation they wish to a word. For the duration of this article the word "laid" is meant to be used inter-changeably with the phrase "clean up dog shit.” Tense subject to change where appropriate.

A Cat In Heat

Years ago I separated from one of my long-term girlfriends. We had been living together just shy of a year, and most of that was spent fighting about…well, just about everything. She packed up her stuff (and some of mine) and left, leaving only her cat. The cat was happy where she was, and it wasn’t the cat’s fault her real owner was a slightly unstable…I’m trying to think of a nice way to say psycho bitch, but nothing is coming to mind. Point being, I ended up with the cat. In the long run, the cat turned out to be the best part of that relationship. Better conversation than my ex, didn’t want to go out as much, didn’t smoke my cigarettes, and yelled at me a whole lot less. Over all, the cat was way easier to live with, right until she went into heat.

Having had mostly male or out door cats when I was a kid, I didn’t immediately notice the change in the cat’s behavior. Yes, she was wanting to be petted a bit more and was scratching the furniture less, but I thought it was just her out growing her kitten habits. What really gave it away was a few days later when the nonstop screeching started when her hormone’s kicked in. Not having the funds to get the cat neutered, I had to try and find another method of helping her deal with the changes in her body.

I tried reasoning with her, “You know, when I hit puberty, I was horny enough to fuck a brick wall. In fact, I think I tried it once, but that’s beside the point. As horny as I was, I didn’t go down to the breakfast table and scream and cry that I needed me some. Mostly because I was scared my dad would take me to that place he took my brother, who says it still burns when he pee’s. While I’m sympathetic to what you’re going through, shut the fuck up.”

It didn’t work; she still meowed at the top of her lungs. I decided to go the route my mother always did with me, ignore the problem and hope it works itself out or eventually runs away from home. I tried to stick to the plan, figuring if I wasn’t giving her attention eventually she would shut up. Around four in the morning, after listening to her for ten straight hours, I realized ignoring the problem wasn’t going to work.

I opted for my dad’s solution. I gave the cat a porn magazine and some q-tips and let her have some privacy while I went outside and had a smoke, hoping she’d take care of her urges herself. Didn’t happen. I ended up going to work the next day with maybe two hours of sleep.

As I did the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Four days in I was a mess. Soon realized that if I was at home, I would be listening to the cat shrieking. Tired of hearing it, I headed up to the coffee shop I hung out at, red eyed and unshaven.

“Why are you here Johnny?” Asked the barista, “You normally don’t come up on Wednesdays.”

“Same reason I’ve come up here for during the past year. There’s a female in my apartment who won’t stop screaming at me and I need some time away from it.”

A friend of mine joined me, mentioning that I looked horrible – because that’s what guys do. I agreed, I looked horrible. We started talking and I was having a hard time following the conversation, fatigued from lack of sleep. I pull the cigarette out of my mouth to ash it. Right about then, my nose starts to itch, so I reach up with my free hand to scratch it. About the time my hand hits my nose, I scream and start flailing around.

Why? Keep in mind I had been up for nearly four days with almost no sleep as we reexamine the scene. I was so tired that when I used my right hand to remove the cigarette to ash it, I didn’t notice that I hadn’t gotten a good grip on it, leaving the cigarette still hanging from my lip, as my right had was actually holding nothing. When I brought up my left hand to itch my nose, the cigarette was in the way, so I basically shoved the cigarette, burning ember and all, right up my nose.

It hurt. Bad.

I excused myself (after I stopped screaming), went home and applied burn cream to my nose and spent the night not sleeping – listening to the cats howling.

At that point, not having the funds to get the cat fixed became less of an issue. If I was ever going to sleep again, I needed to get it taken care of. So I started calling around, looking for a vet who was in my price range.

“We charge three hundred dollars.”
“Three hundred dollars!”
“Yes sir, we use a local anesthetic to make sure your pet is comfortably resting while we perform the surgery. Afterwards, we…”
“I was clear that this is for a cat and not my girlfriend, right?”

From there I did what anyone in my position would do. I decided to perform the operation myself. How hard could it be? I got a pair of salad tongs, a wrench, and some duct tape - but was unable to find a copy of “Fixing Cats For Dummies,” so I had no choice but to continue looking for a reasonably priced vet.

Eventually I found one, got the cat fixed and was able to sleep again. The moral of the story, of course, is – don’t ever put a cigarette out in your nose. The skin there is very sensitive.

A Guy's Guide To Strip Clubs

So Johnny calls me while I’m out of town on a job and tells me that he wants me to write something on strip clubs. “Nice strip clubs,” he says, “the ones with nice girls dancing for the fantasy of it. Not the ones you go to where they only bother dancing in case an undercover cop walks in, to cover up what you’re actually paying them to do.”
I try and tell him I don’t have time to write anything like that and he says, “You’re stuck in a hotel. In a week you’re going to have watched every movie on cable and you’re not going to have anything to do anyways. What else are you going to do? Read?”
So a week later, after I watched all the adult movies the hotel had to offer, I wrote this.

Bill

A Guy’s Guide To Strip Clubs


You know why I love strip clubs? Well, besides that. It’s honest. None of that playing games bullshit you get dealing with women. You go to a strip club because you want to see the girl’s tits. They know you want to see their tits, and they’re ok with that. And you know that they want to charge you to view the goods, and for the most part us guys are ok with that too. It’s all out in the open and honest. Strippers don’t get pissed when you try and give a compliment like “nice ass,” “great tits,” or “you get me hard.” Say any of those things on a first date and see how much the girl giggles. Why we’re not doing a page called “your girlfriend sucks” I’ll never know.

But like anything, there are still rules. Unwritten rules that you should know before going into a strip joint.

Not All Money Is Equal – I know it’s still legal currency and you can buy cigarettes and condoms with it, but don’t even bother bringing in rolls of coins with you. If there’s one thing that’ll make one of the girls freak while dancing, it’s dropping quarters down her g-string. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard “I’m not a vending machine,” well, I’d have enough money for a night in a strip club.

Eat Before You Go – Most clubs serve food as well as drinks. Don’t bother. Grab something before hitting the club. As tolerant as the girls are, you’d think they’d be able to shrug off your leaving a hand shaped barbeque stain on their asses, but it really just pisses them off.

The Stage Is For The Girls Only – This one’s important. You go to a club with your girlfriend and she gets pissed that you won’t dance with her. The opposite is true in titty bars. Just stay at your table and the doorman will let you back in the next time. That and you won’t have to deal with embarrassing questions from your friends like “Is that your picture at the door that’s says ‘refuse service’?” Also worth noting is only the girls are allowed to strip down to their undies.

Don’t Believe Her – If one of the dancers says something like “You’re so cute I could just keep your forever,” or “You’re so sweet I could take you home with me,” it’s not a real offer so don’t try and take her up on it. She doesn’t actually want you to follow her home after she gets off. I’m not going to dig out all of the court records, but they have a bunch of fancy names to describe your doing that.

The Waitresses Are There To Serve Drinks Only – Not to be hit on when you realize the strippers aren’t going to do anything with you. The waitresses work hard, so tip them well and don’t try and get them to give you a lap dance for a reduced price when you’re almost out of money at the end of the night.

Nice Strip Joints Aren’t Big On Southern Rock – So don’t bother screaming out request for Skynard or the Alman Brothers.

The Bouncers Hit Hard – That’s what they’re paid for.

They’ll Usually Tell You If They Have A Boob Job Or Not – If you ask them. They tend to frown upon you taking the incentive of finding out yourself.

What’s Acceptable Behavior In The Strip Club Is Only Acceptable In The Strip Club – If you try and give the waitress at Denny’s her tip by putting it down her skirt, the authorities are going to be involved, again.

Johnny also says I have to say something nice at the closing. Follow the rules and it can be a really good time and a great way to unwind on Friday night. Hate to say it, but try talking to the girls and show a bit of respect. Most of them are really cool and like all the raunchy jokes your girlfriend hates.


I asked Bill later to go ahead and update this to include the sleazier titty bars and he only had one thing to add.

Johnny


Try Not To Think About What’s Happened Before On The Seats – If you realize what you’re probably sitting on, it just ruins the night.

Compliments

It’s not often this happens, but I have to completely disagree with on of the things Bill put up on the opening page. He wrote “If a guy gives you a compliment or shows any interest in anything you're saying, it's to either get into your pants or, if he's already gotten into your pants, to shut you up.”

While it is funny, and partially true, it’s not completely accurate. I wanted to amend this before we give some of our female readers complete complexes over guys and they never date again. Our goal is not to turn the girls in our audience off of guys, just to get you to break up with your jerk boyfriends so, well…you know, we’ll have a shot at you. So I’m going to go a bit more into detail (“yammering on” as Bill puts it) about what it means when your boyfriend or a guy gives a complement.

This is going to require some semantics, so bare with me. In the English language there are two rules that we utilize in spoken encounters everyday. Those being “I understood,” and “You understood.” Basically the I & You are accepted as having been implied, even though they’re not spoken. Native English speakers can easily follow a basic verbal exchange between two people like this; “Going to the store?” “Heading there later.” You don’t have to add the personal pronouns of you or I; the meanings of the sentences are still understood by the listener.

That being said, there is a similar, unwritten, rule in ‘guy talk.’ Something that all males understand as being implied, but is never spoken, when giving a compliment to a female (surprisingly, it has nothing to do with intercourse). Let’s look at a few examples.

“You’re a pretty good driver.”
“You hit pretty hard.”
“You’ve got pretty good taste in music.”

These are the ‘pretty’ examples. When a guy gives you a complement using the words ‘pretty’ or ‘good,’ there is an implied meaning to it. Basically, at the end of each of those sentences the phrase “for a girl” is understood to be added in the male mind. The complement translates to, more or less, “while you’re not as good at that as the most incompetent male, you have surprised me by showing that a female can reach that level of accomplishment.” Let’s take another look at the examples.

“You’re a pretty good driver…for a girl.” Meaning, “If I shut my eyes I could almost believe that I’m in a car being driven by a slightly incompetent man, and not a woman.”

“You hit pretty hard…for a girl.” What he’s saying is, “If you were my ten year old brother I’d actually be proud of you.”

“You’ve got pretty good taste in music...for a girl.” Translates to, “Wow, there’s at least three CD’s you own that I like, and I’m only tempted to throw half your collection away when you’re not here.”

The next level would be ‘great’ complements. The meaning depends on the context. For instance, “You’ve got a great sense of humor,” which means “I would put your sense of humor right up there with the average guys. It’s so rare to find a girl who can make me laugh almost as much as my male friends…and I might like to have sex with you as well.” Or, if the term great is used in direct reference to something about you - such as “You have great legs,” that does mean that he thinks you have great legs. That and he’s trying to get into your pants.

Now if a guy actually says he ‘loves’ something about you or something that you’ve done, then he means every word of it. For example – “I love your tits,” “I love having sex with you,” or “I love when you make me breakfast.” Those are the tender moments, free of implied meanings or interior motives, that you should enjoy.

I hope this helps you understand the male mind a bit more. In closing I’d just like to add one thing. If he says “I love when you give me head,” you’re safe. If he says “You give a pretty good blow job,” there’s potentially something being inferred that you might need to be worried about.