Thursday, October 25, 2012

will guys date fat girls?

i'm a virgin with a non-virgin boyfriend and we love to make out + some groping. my question is, how far can i go without being considered a cock tease? i don't want to go below the belt yet, but i also don't want to give him blue balls every time we make out, either. that's not fair.

is blue balls really a real thing? like, a certifiably-proven thing? i mean, is there a medical term for what happens inside your testicles when you have an unresolved boner? i'm genuinely curious, but i don't feel like googling this shit and looking like a creep at work. i mean, i get angry red vagina every time a motherfucker doesn't call me back in a timely fashion, but i doubt you're going to find that shit in any science textbook. mostly because i just made it up.

jesus, you kids have some admirable restraint. i cannot sustain eye contact with a handsome dude for more than three seconds without turning red (YES THAT HAPPENS TO BLACK PEOPLE, you bigot) and immediately unbuttoning my pants. the other day this ladydude wearing a bowtie and suspenders was holding my gaze all intently like we were in a women's prison movie and my labia damn near burst into flames. i don't even know what it means to stop before causing testicular damage. the only time i've ever paused some sexing was when i had to push this dude out mid-thrust because i didn't want to spray him with diarrhea, and even then i rinsed my asshole in the shower and we were going at it like wild dogs in a matter of minutes. how do you possess such restraint?! even if i'm not feeling so hot and really not into it a few bites on the neck and i'm all, "aww, okay. just mute the tv and slide the crotch of my diaper to the left." color me impressed, young lady.

oh, just fuck him already. just in case blue balls is a real goddamned thing.

what can you do as a guy when your friend, who is also a guy, is crying?

dang, this is a tough one. OKAY: make sure he's seated on a low back couch or bed. start massaging his neck region; use both hands. take your fingers and apply pressure to each side of his neck, then move inward with circular motions until your fingers on both hands are touching. be sure that you apply pressure but you should not press hard enough to have the receiver cry harder than he already was. move downward towards the base of his neck. continue in a circular motion with only your fingertips. once you have reached the base of his neck, move outward until your fingers are on the sides again.

massage his shoulders next. use your fingers in a grabbing motion. continue to move back and forth over the entire muscle area until he is completely relaxed and his muscles are loose. spend five minutes on his head and face. begin by scratching his scalp with your nails. trace the folds of his ears, the contours of his cheekbones and nose. next, place your palms on the back of his head, as if you were holding a cantaloupe in cupped hands. where his neck meets the skull, you'll find little hollows in the bone. to give them their due, put your fingertips on them and gradually increase the intensity. then grasp his head at the jaw and pull it toward you gently, stretching his neck muscles.

take your tongue and gently outline the contour of his lips. no, slower than that. real slow. close your eyes and lean in for a kiss. gently, at first, then applying more pressure. open your mouth a little bit while pushing him back onto the bed. wipe his tears away while staring deep into his eyes. MOUNT HIM. grind a little bit, in slow motion like mama likes it. unzip his wait, what were we talking about again?!

will guys date fat girls?

OH BOY, WILL THEY. you might have to sift through a handful of mama's boys in cableknit sweaters and thumb through a dossier of recent parolees, but if you remain determined and keep hope alive you will undoubtedly find someone willing to dive headfirst between your mountainous slabs of room temperature cottage cheese.

where do you live, suburban connecticut? i mean, do you know any motherfucking black dudes?! is there a public housing project where you live? because GO TO THERE. i have approximately 8,364,219 bruhs in my phone who are currently having the time of their goddamned lives banging some meaty white broad who really wishes they wouldn't drop so many of their Ts and Gs. jungle fever is a plus-sized white woman's best friend. but racists need love, too, i guess: hmm, are white dudes into curvy women yet? doesn't mama june from that honey boo boo show have a man?! that bitch is my goddamned hero. nineteen chins and every single one of them getting loved on by a dude who probably can't even tie his own shoes! so there's hope for us all, yeah? i fucking hope so. my chins and i need to get asked out on a goddamned date. meanwhile, i'm going to stock up on flaming hot funyuns and big cans of arizona fruit punch. MANBAIT.

i have a bit of a philosophical question: do you believe you can meet the right person at the wrong time? i've met someone amazing, but this isn't a great time for either of us. how do i keep things open so that when things are better we can explore a relationship?

story of my miserable goddamned life. every amazing dude i know is married to some dumb asshole. or banging some dumb asshole. or just got divorced from some dumb asshole but is thinking about reconciling, you know, for the children. are you facebook friends? that's really your only hope, i think. stalk the shit out of that motherfucker, designate her a "close friend" so you get a little red alert if she so much as sneezes online, and occasionally comment on a status with something hilarious and articulate but not overly aggressive or desperate. hopefully you'll move on by the time she's ready to get with you, because this kind of shit is implausible in the worst way and the sooner you forget about her the better. life is not like "the notebook." internet stalking is going to have to be enough. 

how do you hug a tall, skinny guy without it being awkward? seriously, it's all armpits and no cuddles to hold on to.

speaking of fucking a fat bitch, 90% of the dudes i've dated are lanky beanpoles who could change lightbulbs without having to stand on a kitchen chair to do it. even that one time i was a lesbian homegirl weighed, like, fourteen fucking pounds. what is it with skinny dudes and big asses? THAT SHIT IS DANGEROUS, BRO. every time i bang one i have to kick him out right after because i can't afford to stay awake half the night trying to make sure i don't roll over and absorb this little motherfucker into one of my stomach folds. i'm tired, you anorexic sonofabitch! TAKE YOUR SKINNY ASS THE FUCK HOME.

with the africans i always understood that animal attraction. you know, this meat beard is pretty much THE physical representation of all the abundance that is to be found on american soil. so many scuffed-up church shoes and woven huarache sandals lined up at the foot of my bed belonging to some reedy, cab-driving neurophysicist whose pockets were full of singles (you know, to make change) and prepaid international phone cards. always trying to get me to eat jollof rice and stew with chicken claws in it and shit. sorry olatunde, in america we eat cheetos.

tall dude hugging strategy: JUST STAND THERE, DUMMY. let his tall ass figure it out. unless you're so teeny and he's so massive that the only way to hug this motherfucker is to wrap your tiny arms around his waist like a child (in which case you probably should not hug him unless it's to steady yourself during a beej), just stand still and let him decide how best to envelop you. or drape himself over you. or remove his lowest rib and fold his body in half and hug you normal. and just remember, even if you break your goddamned nose jabbing it into the musky armpit of some seven foot basketball center with vertebrae you can count through his shirt, that shit is still 700x better than throwing out your back while trying not to suffocate a short dude with your heaving bosom. silver lining, ho. ps, talley-smalleys are the gosh darned cutest.

does my man love me if he looks at porn while i'm in the room?

not only does he love you, that fine gentleman apparently also understands what "the season finale of  gossip girl is on tonight" means. a couple years ago i dated this dude who rode a skateboard and wore purple skinny jeans cinched with a belt just below his tiny man ass, and every time he came over and i was choking on my own snot while watching something on lifetime movie network he would just get out his laptop and comically large headphones and watch porn until i cried myself hoarse over some murdered cheerleader or stolen child. he wouldn't touch himself or anything, he just watched that shit the way you or i would watch a documentary. like he was checking out the fucking cinematography of some shit called anal creampies 6. that shit weirded me out at first, but then it dawned on me: "i can watch beaches uninterrupted and have this dude suck my toes?! WIN." count your blessings. this dude is a keeper. (unless he just stops calling you for no reason even though he left a pair of spotless vintage jordans in your hall closet. thanks, john!)

what would guys like to hear during and after they've lost an erection? would they like us to treat them nicely? would they like us to pretend it didn't it happen?

i always say, "it's okay, pumpkin!" in a really soothing voice while smoothing his hair as one would a teething baby to get it to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. i feel like further emasculation is precisely what the doctor ordered to wrest the momentum from his flaccid hands and shift the power dynamic in my favor. if i can get him to cry, even better. just kidding, bitch! that shit
doesn't ever happen to me! have you seen my amazing tits?!"

i wish i was prettier"
is my usual go-to apology when confronted with a deflated water balloon full of sex failure, said while pulling my shirt over my head with one hand and using the other to forage through the sweaty blankets for my phone to see if anyone put any hilarious cat memes on facebook since the last time i checked five minutes ago. i don't take it personally or get pissed off about that kind of thing. twenty years from now i'm going to make sparks shoot out of whatever penis tries to enter my bone dry hairy donut, so a bitch needs to pay that karma forward. plus my reflexive response to everything is, "self efface! make a joke!" which usually helps when shit is awkward. don't dwell, don't ask "is it something i did?!!?!" in your high-pitched hysterical ladysqueak, just get your dimpled ass out of that bed and ride out for some tacos. and a cock ring.

will my "friends with benefits" ever become something more? we used to date but he says he doesn't want to see anyone romantically, could he want me later on if i continue being friends with benefits and play it cool?

OKAY, LADIES. i am going to take this as an opportunity to remind us ways in which we need to be good to each other. my first response, which came straight from my saccharine-coated ladybrain, was OF COURSE IT WILL. because, like every other woman on the planet, i am harboring a dozen swoony unrequited crushes that deep in the soft parts of what's left of my heart i hope will turn into something someday. sadly, they will not. and lucky for me i have friends who are like, "oh, i know. he loves you. mm hmm. he is never ever getting divorced, hooker. put on your outside pants and let's go try on eyeshadows at MAC for three hours."

and lucky for YOU that you have ME. i have tried on so much sad eyeshadow! so many hours spent on those tiny ass uncomfortable chairs at sephora while some haughty queen with a raggedy weave tries to teach me how to airbrush chalky "medium-deep" (which NEVER LOOKS LIKE BLACK SKIN) kabuki makeup on my face like a stylish person! so many crumpled up wads of kleenex stained bloody with long-wearing matte lipstick! so many different colored trial nails! so many of those white cardboard strips soaked in kim kardashian perfume! so many moist towelettes! so many brush demonstrations! so many purse-sized samples!!! at the end of the day my bag becomes the graveyard of my broken heart. littered with toxic cosmetic waste and embarrassingly large receipts. and then i get home and wonder who the fuck is going to wear that purple lipstick and those false eyelashes.

but it's better than the alternative, sitting around wondering what the opposite of platonic is and when this asshole is going to figure out that's what he wants from me. friends with benefits pretty much equals friends without possibility. besides, playing it cool is overrated. unless you're up against a manic sephora cast member trying to talk you into a $120 face cream who is also convinced that metallic bright sky blue is "totally your COLOR, boo!" i am powerless against them. sigh.