Dear Men Who Send Dick Shots to Women,
Women do not want to see your dick. They aren’t interested in your abs, and they don’t care how much weight you lost. Men get dumped for partying too much or cheating or being devoid of ambition. “He was too fat” or “His chest was too hairy” has been used as an excuse to dump a guy approximately never. There have been instances of men getting dumped for having a small penis, but you’d need a microscope to find them. Women can make do with just about anything larger than an outie.
The myth of equality has done a tornado’s worth of damage across our great nation, but the assumption that women are as horny as men is ruining our lives—especially the lives of dumb, lonely, insecure guys who use computers and cell phones to foist their digital dinguses onto unsuspecting and unwilling maidens.
“You know what women masturbate to? The color orange. Or maybe a sunset.”
You know what women masturbate to? The color orange. Or maybe a sunset. Or a nonexistent man in a suit taking her future children to the park. If you want to get a woman horny, send her a picture of you carrying a briefcase or maybe playing a guitar onstage. Biology is yucky to them. Seeing a pair of scruffy, misshapen testicles bounce against a sweaty vagina is an image only a man could love (and even then we’re repulsed after we’ve finished and see the video still rolling on our computer).
How are the sales of those Guys Gone Wild videos where frat dudes in wet T-shirts make out with each other? No such thing. Straight women are more likely to be turned on by naked women than by naked men. Among heteros, both sexes only want to look at women—women are that hot.
Does anyone doubt for a second it’s the fags who keep wrenching Playgirl magazine out of bankruptcy? Can you even imagine a woman settling into her deckchair with a tall glass of lemonade and the latest issue of a glossy periodical featuring elegant photographs of mottled male posteriors? The homosexuals are everything women pretend to be. Gays see men’s bodies the same way straight males see women. While walking with a gay neighbor the other day and ogling women on the street, I elbowed him and gave him a Ralph Kramden hummina-hummina-hummina about a particularly perky passerby. “I don’t know,” he replied. “She’s a little too booby/vagina-y for me and not penisy enough.” He also said, “If a guy doesn’t have it going on down there, I’m not interested. Actually, that’s all I’m interested in.” I love arguing with homos about the strange hairy shapes they’ve been cursed to crave. “How can you love a bag?” I recently pleaded to gay filmmaker Bruce LaBruce. He loves men so much he was barely able to answer such ridiculous blasphemy. “You obviously have no respect for the human form,” he said.
Yes, I do. I appreciate “the fairer sex,” as God calls them. I covet every facet of a woman. Her muffin top is an extra breast. The zit on her ass is a beauty mark. Her beef curtains are an orchid. Our unflappable libido is what got us all here. If women shared these traits, we’d have shoeless orphans running through the streets like stray dogs. Look at male and female strip clubs. While a gaggle of ladies scream and laugh at the naked man pretending to hump them, men sit alone and erect, quietly sipping beer and staring headlong into a woman’s anus.
I did a comedy sketch about this for Will Ferrell’s site and there was a predictable backlash where women claimed they are constantly consumed with lust. Sure, there are blips in a gal’s history when she may request a penis shot from a guy she knows and likes. But this phase is very rare and occurs for about a week during a relationship’s zenith when a woman’s uterus is barking at its owner, “This guy’s The One. GET him!” Before the zenith it’s like getting a shot of a pig’s organs as you bite into a pork sandwich.
After the zenith it’s worse. Once a man’s swollen organ has pushed its way deep inside a woman’s body when she wasn’t really in the mood, his once-golden phallus becomes a telemarketer ringing her iPhone while she sits on the toilet trying to remove a stubborn tampon. And who wants a picture of that?
The secret to seducing a woman is to distract her instincts and convince her you’re not there for sex. You give her a back rub or massage her feet. You laugh at her jokes and talk about how enamored you are with her photography. You pretend you’re only interested in what’s “up here” and couldn’t care less what goes on “down there.” You lie through your teeth and tell her that getting your rocks off is only the icing on the cake—exactly the way it is with her.
The truth is that a man will do it with just about any female on the planet, regardless of species, any time of day. We only wish random female strangers were dying to see blurry JPEGs of our proud, cornstalk-sized boners to use as fodder while diddling their beans. We fantasize about a world where women shared our insatiable needs. What red-blooded American male hasn’t secretly prayed that a nymphomaniac maid who speaks zero English was going to enter his hotel room with sopping-wet inner thighs? The rational among us recognize this fantasy is reserved for Penthouse Forum and we keep it to ourselves. The idiots indulge.
The Rest of Us
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