I’m a man in my mid-30s and I just started dating after the end of a five-year relationship. The last three dates I’ve had have been with women on Terminator-style search-and-be-impregnated missions: “Has job…does not live at home…Full head of hair…MATCH! MATCH! MATCH!” For these women, a successful date isn’t “Gee, I kind of like you, let’s hang out, get to know each other, and maybe have sex.” It’s more like “OK, you’ll do; let’s buy a house and have kids now.” I’m not interested in being anyone’s sperm donor at the moment. Nothing kills romance faster than reproductive desperation. Don’t these dolls get it?
–Not Your Phat Daddy
Whether you realize it or not, NYPD, those desperate dolls were doing you a favor. By letting you know they were on marry-and-mate missions, these women tipped you off, and you were able to flee before things got serious. Some women are better at disguising their reproductive desperation, and had you been dating one of these women, well, things might have turned out very differently. You might have been hanging out and having sex with a woman who–oops!–forgot to put in her diaphragm one night. Or misplaced her pills. Or poked holes in the condom. And once she was knocked up wasn’t quite so pro-choice as she’d led you to believe.
Instead of complaining, you should thank these women for being open about their intentions. Then dump their desperate asses. But be warned: dolls who’ve been repeatedly dumped by guys struggling with cliched fear-of-commitment crapola eventually adopt new stratagems. You see, women in search-and-be-impregnated mode tend to get dumped a lot by guys in sex-with-no-strings mode. Eventually a woman will switch to stealth search-and-be-impregnated mode, telling a man everything he wants to hear (“Oh honey, let’s just live for today! Another blow job?”), biding her time until she can make him say what she wants to hear (“Oh shit, you’re pregnant? Guess we better get married”).
But if I may lecture you, NYPD, a man in his mid-30s has had plenty of time to slut around, plenty of opportunity to stick his dick in skanks, and should have figured out by now if he wants kids. There’s a point in a man’s life–around when he has to start going in for regular prostate exams–when fear of commitment and/or indecision on the wife-and-kids issue is no longer masculine or attractive or Peter Pan or Jack Kerouac or Bruce Springsteen. It’s just pathetic. I’m not saying that all men should want to settle down and/or have kids–the world would be a much better place if men who didn’t want kids didn’t have kids. But by the time you’re 40 and fat, with a real career and a swollen prostate gland, you’ve had enough time to make up your fucking mind, guys.
And once you’ve made up your mind, there’s a simple way to avoid reproductive desperadoes: if you feel no need to breed, don’t date women who want kids. Tell the women you date you’re not interested in being anyone’s phat daddy. Date only women who, like you, don’t want kids–they’re out there–or women who’ve already had kids. Telling women who want kids that you don’t want kids will make it less likely that these women will sleep with you in hopes that you’re a MATCH! MATCH! MATCH! Which means you’ll get laid less, but hey, look on the bright side: you won’t wind up being anyone’s “accidental” daddy.
I’m a 28-year-old professional single woman. I live with my boyfriend, and he enjoys strip clubs. I didn’t have a problem with him going at first because he said it was no big deal, no touching involved, and he didn’t go very often. I recently found out that the last time he went he spent $500, stayed seven hours, and there was touching involved. I admit to being naive on the subject: I didn’t know that you can pay strippers to crawl on top of you. I feel like I’ve been cheated on. Is he sick or am I a prude? I can’t turn to my girlfriends because I don’t want to destroy their good opinion of my boyfriend. I should mention that he was ashamed and apologetic when confronted.
–Strip Club Widow
He’s not sick, you’re not a prude, and you weren’t cheated on. He didn’t have sex with strippers–while $500 is a lot of money, it won’t go that far in a strip club–and while you may not have been aware of everything that goes on in a strip club, he was going with your consent. Which is not to say that your boyfriend behaved admirably: when he obtained your permission, he probably downplayed the amount of time and money he spends in strip clubs and didn’t inform you about all those couch, table, and lap dances. He took advantage of your naivete, and for that he should be made to suffer.
Since you gave him permission to go before you knew he was capable of spending $500 and seven hours in a strip club, and when you thought there was no touching involved, you have every right to forbid him to go from here on out. But let’s not kid ourselves: your boyfriend is still gonna go to strip clubs. If he goes without your permission, however, he’ll be more discreet about it, spending less money and less time there, and if you’re smart you’ll turn a blind eye.
I hope I’m not letting the pussy out of the parcel, but most straight guys in long-term relationships wanna fuck other women. For lots of guys, going to a strip club helps them blow off that wanna-fuck-other-women steam without actually fucking other women. If your boyfriend can go to a strip club without blowing your rent money and is considerate enough to keep you in the dark about it, well, is it really that awful? There are times when two people have to suspend their disbelief and pretend their partners are the people they would like them to be. Call it being functionally dysfunctional: if your boyfriend is willing to pretend he doesn’t go to strip clubs, you should, for the sake of your relationship, be willing to pretend that your boyfriend doesn’t go to strip clubs too.
Like Hairy Butt Blues, I wanted a less fuzzy butt. I went for five laser hair-removal sessions with a doctor who said laser hair removal was “permanent.” All the treatment did was remove the color from my ass hair, which is now pure white. The same thing happened to a friend who got her legs done. I’m going for electrolysis now, and even though it’s slower, the results are ten times better. Heads up on this bullshit laser hype, HBB.
–Scammed in San Fran
If you’ve been left with freakish albino butt hair, then perhaps HBB should take my original advice to heart: if people could only learn to love their butt hair they wouldn’t need lasers or electrolysis. Now that everybody knows mustaches are back in style–there was a story about it in The Wall Street Journal!–can butt hair be far behind?
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