by Ali Adler
But a woman requires this same type of strategic talk, and sometimes your brain needs a break. You compartmentalize, and you need to put your brain on ice for a few minutes after you walk in the door. Unfortunately, this is in the same moment that she sees you, realizes that she has missed you, and wants to connect with you. This is horrible timing because you are decompressing from mental overuse. However, your body feels available when she approaches you for this emotional connection. She is chopping out the overly detailed moves of her day, while the whole time you’re thinking, “When, where, and how can I remove the semen from my ballsack?”
Women’s Favorite Foreplay Is Being Listened To
But guys, this is shortsighted. If you want to fuck, you’re going to have to go against your natural instincts. You must do the opposite of what you want to do, and that is to listen to her. Think of her need to engage. Her word emissions are a form of verbal ejaculation. It actually soothes women, untangles us. So, as we go through the wilds of our days—work slights, kids’ fights, home mishaps—it is hard for us to move forward or even ask you about your day until we have monologued about our day. Being listened to is our foreplay.
This is so painful—I get that. It’s a speed bump that you desperately want to blow past. But be generous now so that later on, you can be selfish. If women haven’t had a chance to download, the last thing on their minds is fucking. But, if they come into a room and see that you are bent down and playing some idiot pretend game with your daughter, not only does she know that’s one less thing she has to do, but she appreciates your thoughtfulness in putting your kid’s needs first. And later, it may inspire her to put your needs first and possibly in her mouth.
Listen, I know you don’t want to be running around wearing a princess crown and an old plastic lei, but it shows your woman that you are capable of thinking outside yourself, and that is what she’s looking for. It is symbolic, and it will get you the results you desire. Once your desires are satisfied, you can resume being selfish for a finite period until you have the urge for sex again—which is certainly a finite period.
Don’t Try to Fix
Here is the most important thing in understanding women, and therefore earning your ability to consistently fuck them. It is essential. The key to the vagina kingdom is: Don’t fix. Just listen. This is so difficult, but it is so essential. Think of your penis not as a screwdriver, but as a microphone.
Yes, we like sex (actually, we love it!), but if we have bad feelings, you won’t get laid. I know it’s annoying, but we want to discuss our whole day with you. I call this “yammering out the details.” It’s trying to catch you up on the slights and intrigues of all the time that we’re not with you. We think it will give you insight into our headspace. I get it; you don’t care. But she won’t get that, because this is an important part of her process. Just like blankly watching TV or sitting way too long on the toilet is an important part of yours. (What happens in there, anyway?) It pares down to you wanting to be left alone in your process, while women want to be heard and joined in ours.
Men don’t want to listen; they want to fix. But women don’t want your solutions. Yours never make sense to us. Your solutions annoy us. If you jump in and try to fix her “problem,” things will heat up because she won’t feel understood. So the quickest and best advice—hard as it is to actually do—is to shut your mouth.
We women feel about your ears the way you feel about our tits. Instead of your fixes for solving our problems, we want your empathy, and to know that you’re listening. Conversely, you mostly just want us to be quiet. Here’s a tip from way behind the enemy lines, some real gender Benedict Arnold shit here: you don’t even have to listen. Of course it would be excellent if you did, but even if you just look at her attentively, you’re already way ahead of the game.
Appear interested, undistracted. No TV, no computer, no texting. Even chewing is annoying. Don’t floss, either. Let us blather. Nod occasionally. Try to avoid fidgeting. Focus. Take tiny breaths. Ask questions about details you could care less about. “Did she really say that?” “Was that after you went to the bathroom, or before?”
She’ll talk endlessly about nothing you could ever possibly be interested in, sometimes very passionately. “I think she even flirts with the boss so her ideas get approved, which she would completely deny. But I don’t think it’s an accident she wore that skirt—it’s not like she doesn’t know she has nice legs—the same day the regional manager came to do her review.”
Use These Words Sparingly
You fear that her speech and the other topics she so easily toggles to once she believes she has your attention will never end, but they will—when you use the following two words. I must encourage you to use them sparingly. If you use them too much, she will catch on. The key to ensuring sex later is speaking the following words right now: “I understand.” When you’ve used this phrase a few times, it can become “I get it.” Or even “I so get that.”
These short word combinations are the key to it all. Gradually, they will even become true for you. You will understand, because even if you don’t think and feel like she does, listening to her blather on will create that muscle for you. You’re not a dog, you don’t speak dog language, but over time, you have learned the nonverbal signals of your pet needing to go outside.
These two words, “I understand,” also come in handy during a fight that you barely comprehend the reason for. Forget expensive flowers. Instead, use the words, “I understand,” or the even far more rare and therefore treasured, “I’m sorry.” You may worry that saying this will somehow weaken you, but in reality they make you and your relationship stronger. And you will get to fuck way more often.
Sex with No Strings Is a Myth
Another key to understanding women is that for many, a lot of her quest is about finding some version of a post-modern Prince Charming, however she may define that. I know it seems arcane, but let’s assume one thing is true: for most women, sex is a means to an end. Sure, yes, an orgasm, but ultimately it is about an emotional connection.
Emotional connection after emotional connection equals happily ever after. Most of the time, you shouldn’t believe her when she says she’s only into it for the hookup. And, if she really did just want to have sex with you with nothing further expected, it’s time to look at yourself. After all, if she only estimated you as a sport-fuck, this means she doesn’t think of you as an appropriate lifetime partner. So, time to consider, what’s missing in you if that’s the only way she’s willing to think about you?
Sex with no strings attached is almost as big a myth as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Fairy-tale endings are tough to come by. There’s a reason there were white horses and castles and disemboweling in those tales. It was the olden times. People shat outdoors. These stories were written with a feather quill. That’s how antiquated the notion of happily ever after is.
Stories about seven little people—totally fine to call them dwarfs back then. One of whom, you may remember, was an actual medical doctor. Well, they thought it was a perfectly okay decision to stick an unconscious poisoned girl, who seemed to be dead (at the very least, time was of the essence), inside a glass coffin and wait for a stranger—a royal stranger, no less—to ride up in the desolate woods and wake her with a kiss. That was their solution.
What are the odds of a prince with a necrophilia fetish coming upon this particular scene just in the nick of time? That’s weirder than anything even Dateline could come up with. Nowadays, even the dopiest and/or bashful of the little people would reach for his phone to ask Siri to find the poison control center: “Hey there, hi, this probably isn’t on your list, but can you tell me what the antidote is for “poisoned apple”? No, I don’t know if it’s a Fuji or a Macintosh. It’s red. Does that help?? A kiss? Seriously? Ohhh, a royal kiss. That makes way more sense. Thank you very much, operator.”
Women get a bad rap for their unrealistic expectations, waiting for their knight in shinin
g armor, their Prince Charming. But men want the equivalent, in a way. You want all your emotional and sexual needs met without ever having to discern them, articulate them, or do too much work to get them. Happily ever after without having to look up from your screens, sandwiches, or porn.
Snow White’s only qualification for becoming Mrs. Charming is that she is the “fairest of them all.” That’s it; that’s her whole thing. No one asks if she can cook a decent goose over an open flame, slash the neck of a charging wild boar in the dark heart of the forest, or pen a witty tweet. And the prince instantly falls in love with her without ever speaking to her at all. In fact, Snow White’s dad, the King—the one who married the evil stepmother who conjured up all this drama in the first place—married this not-so-nice woman only because she was hot as shit. That stepmom was the preeminent hottie of the land until she took out an unsuccessful hit on her own stepchild(!). And Snow White’s dad married this bitch, so look at the parental role model Snow had. Her dad prized beauty above all else.
Before the Queen was an evil stepmother, wasn’t she probably an evil mean girl in general? Didn’t she create a whole bunch of drama amongst the other girls in the kingdom? I assume she probably screwed over some of her best wenches in order to catch the King’s attention. I’ll bet that shit was epic. Lying, cheating, too much ale pong and deleting of royal texts. But it didn’t matter to Snow’s dad (who incidentally, kind of falls out of the story). He might’ve guessed it may not end well for his daughter. His only qualification for wife was “fairest in the land.” It was like online dating, where women can spend hours and weeks filling out the wittiest, pithiest online questionnaires, while men are just whizzing by, checking out who has the biggest tits or reddest lips.
All this is to say that often both genders place an unrealistic amount of value on looks and appearances. I guess I can’t really make the generalization as to which gender does this more, but it’s men. No shit. Obviously, it’s men. Not that women aren’t guilty of this, too, but how often do you see a super-hot woman with a disgustingly obese or obscenely elderly man? Him: panting and sweaty on the bottom. Her: doing all the work before his congested, fatty arteries explode. (Do you have to imagine them making love? Or is this only me? I wish I could stop myself.)
Would the kiss of a commoner have awakened Snow White? Those dwarfs could feverishly dry-hump Snow White for hours (and of course they did)—why would anyone think she only cooked and made their little beds, washed and sewed and knitted for this gaggle of teeny men? For sure, Snow White spent the better part of her day relieving these seven dwarfs of their pesky dwarf semen. “Oy, I wish it were only six!” she must have muttered between dwarf BJs.
Quality versus Quantity
But either way, if the remedy for her poisoning is kissing, Snow White wasn’t waking up from the kisses of their seven stubby little dicks. Let’s face it: Snow White awoke from the dead because of the kiss of someone who owned a royal penis. You have to be Prince Charming. And no, you don’t need to look like him, have his cool lineage, or even own an especially high-caliber steed. You just need to have his manners and his ability to listen.
Maybe you already can fuck anyone you want. And maybe this is the most important thing for you to be able to do. But doesn’t it always run dry? I mean, sure, of course, you can pick up stupid women who fall for stupid pickup lines (which is what those seminars should really be called). But women, like anything else, can be more or less valuable based on their own self-esteem. Generally, the ladies who fall for the pickup lines taught at seminars are the women who can be picked up. The question is, do you want them?
If the answer is yes, that’s okay; I get it. It means you value quantity over quality. So go ahead, keep fucking them until you’re sick of it. If it feels great, keep on thrusting. You’ll notice that even consummate bachelor George Clooney fucked many different people (however serial monogamously) until he was ready not to. But there was a point at which he liked and respected the person he was fucking enough to entertain fucking her for a lifetime. Even Clooney tapped out on fresh, new pussy.
Vaginas Are Like Snowflakes That You Can Fuck
I know. Most of you assume you totally know what you’re doing, fucking-wise: “Hey, I got this.” But women are the most complicated things on Earth, and they don’t come with instruction manuals. Even if they did, you’d just throw them away. In fact, you wouldn’t want anyone to see you buy this book, but you’ll purchase endless lessons on the best golf swing. You’ll explore websites with video game hints, tips, tricks, and secrets for hours. Even into adulthood, you read and memorize sports statistics; information you can’t share with anyone who isn’t in your own peer group. I know that I risk offending, but no fuckable female with a working vagina cares what Ken Griffey Jr.’s 1999 batting average was (.284, what does this even mean?!)—except maybe Ken Griffey Sr.’s wife. And, odds are, she probably won’t have sex with you.
But you read, you memorize. You play sports, shooting basket after basket. You fail, you continue. You pore over porn. Maybe you’re studying, researching thoughtfully, looking for new ways to please a woman—and then, uh-oh, physiology takes over. You get distracted by your erection, your investigation knocked down the priority list. Your sperm percolates like millions of microscopic popcorn kernels, no added trans fats necessary. If they could, your sperm would say, “Oh, please, help us escape, there’s only so much room! It’s so overcrowded in here, it’s testicular sardines! How do we get out?!” And then you masturbate and come, and then close the computer window and delete your history, oh so sleepily. Every bit of investigative data forgotten, shot out along with your sperm.
Your research project over, sleep consumes you. “What was I looking up anyway . . .?” Let’s face it: sex is your engine, every single minute of every second of every day—and for that, you may not think you need any clues on how to operate the machinery. You’re cool with guessing where this thing gets placed properly, or how to get the most pleasure out of the experience. You’re fine with the skill set that you’ve been able to cobble together. You have to have, like, four hundred hours of experience to pilot a plane in the sky, but sex—that you’re cool with.
As many ways and angles as there are to see vaginae on the computer, there’s no substitute for seeing them up close and for real. As boys, when you first arrived at the site of your expedition, no one had prepped you as to what to do with it. And back then, you may not have even cared, because you just wanted to stick your penis in a hole and have some friction. At the end of the day, most boys are not picky eaters. However, now that you’re a grown man and have dined out a bit more, maybe you’re ready for more diversity of palate. Maybe you’re ready to learn how to finesse your skills.
But up until now, who were you supposed to ask for advice? And if you did ever ask anyone—maybe when you were younger, or drunker—would they have had any clue? Did your college frat brothers know anything about pleasuring a woman? How could they? You never came up to them and tentatively wondered, “So listen, dude, I know there are drunk bitches passed out all over the urine- and sweat-stained couches, but what are their intrinsic emotional needs? How can I be sensitive to them in a culture obsessed with their appearance? And after answering that, will you give me a coupla tips on pussy eating? ’Cause, come on, that shit’s fucking crazy.”
When you were a teenager, did you think of asking your parents? Nah. Blech, they jammed their private areas together and made you. You came out of that hairy vagina (you know it is! Unless your mom is exceptionally young or slutty, her pubic region is an overgrown bush the width of a potholder). Now she’s going to school you on how to fuck a vagina? Not very likely. Your dad? Ew. You were generated in his sweaty nut sack—those same saggy, crepey balls he’s probably adjusting right this very second. You are the lottery winner, the lucky sperm that lived from the millions who died in Kleenex and toilets and sweat socks and rubbed away under the driver’s seat of the car. Congratulations: you are t
he genetic appointee who avoided getting swallowed by your not-wanting-to-offend-but-not-super-down-with-it mother.
So who are you gonna ask? Oh, what about asking a female friend? As if there is such a thing. You’d never be that vulnerable with someone whom you could potentially enter. So whom do you ask? And moreover, whom do you rely on? (“Whom” is such a fancy word for this topic, isn’t it? Like a crack whore wearing Chanel lipstick and a fancy church hat.) Because there’s a lot of shitty information out there. The Internet, like the world, has many disgusting neighborhoods in it. There’s nothing on there that will teach you sex the way they can teach you how to have a better golf swing in ten easy lessons. And golf, by the way—that you’ll practice for hours. I once saw a guy practicing his swing using a doggie pooper-scooper in lieu of a sand wedge. But practice eating a vagina? He’d rather scoop the poop.
Let’s be honest here: the vagina is an odd-looking thing. I get it, and I own one. And allow me to tell you from experience: no two are alike. Vaginas are skin snowflakes. Some have big outer lips, some have small inner labia; some have a lot of hair, some have no hair; some are wet, some are dry, some are thin and simple, some are chubby with complicated beefy reefs. (I feel as though I’m writing a pervy Dr. Seuss book.)
I mean, you must just be stunned when you get down there. Long or short, thick or thin, a penis is basically a hunk of skin with some oddities dangling off the bottom of it. (Hey, guys, your balls are totally as fucking weird and daunting as our vaginas. Big! Small! Droopy! High! Tight! Hairy! Saggy! Thing One and Thing Two!) But you are questing from puberty on to get to women’s hole-y grail. One that you’ve only seen through endless porno portals that don’t do this organ justice. You’re dying to shake hands with this elusive epidermal Eden up close and personal. But when you finally arrive, ready to plant the flag, you must be confounded by its shape and differences from your own genitals. (A space alien upon seeing a vagina for the first time: “I know! It’s a sweaty elk’s ear! Oh, no, on Xytron we have something just like this! It’s a hairy pile of prosciutto!”)