How to F*ck a Woman

by Ali Adler

  So the next time she wants to bring up a topic that feels tender for her, say some version of “Okay, let’s talk about it now.” The fact that you’re open to it will throw her off. She will have her topic. It can be something as small as, “Please don’t leave your towel on the bed; it makes the sheets moldy.” Or something as large as, “I’m not happy.” Either way, the more you put it off, the bigger it gets. So, please, deal with it now. If you ignore them, both mold and sadness will grow. It’s so much easier to nip them in the bud.

  Chapter 6

  Cracking the Code

  What the Hell Does She Really Want?

  “Now act like you like it.”

  She noisily puts a new roll of toilet paper onto the empty holder with an exasperated sigh. Her pen digs into the grocery list paper as she emphatically writes something down that you just obliviously ate the last of. She wants you to hear her noisy clues. But, the thing is, most of the time you just don’t. And if, by random chance, you were focused in on her long enough to clock it, you’re not stupid. You’re certainly not going to comment on it. “Why are you sighing?” Why would you ask this? You don’t ask for the same reason you don’t lick your finger and then jam it into an exposed light socket. You tell yourself, “Keep your head down, keep on moving. Clearly you’ve done something wrong.”

  All she wants you to do is ask her what’s wrong. But you won’t. After all, the way her ass just moved when she was angrily jotting down the words “Fruit-at-the-bottom cherry yogurt” has you distracted. Now you’re just thinking about her bottom. Or cherries. Or her mouth when she eats yogurt. It’s all a jumbly mess to you, but you know you want sex. However, hear this: when you piss off your lady, she’s not looking to get fucked out of her bad mood. If you suggest it, or worse, take an action to make this happen, she will be pissed off. She doesn’t want what you want. You want to fuck away your feelings. That feels nice to you. She wants to duke it out emotionally, be acknowledged, validated, and recognized.

  To women, feelings are like expensive, rare white truffles. They are so costly, shaved paper thin with a razor to add resonant flavor to everything. To men, these same precious truffles are dirty, shit-coated fungi. Men don’t want to talk about this stuff because men have something most women do not have: a sense of goddamned urgency. A driving forward march; a need for emission. They are motivated by the power pack inside their nut sacks. Less talk, more action. Actions always yield more results than theory. It’s the fuck-and-make-up approach, versus the find-something-new-to-be-wounded-about method.

  The Emotional Reset Button

  I’m not saying that women don’t have pure, raw sex drives; of course we do. But when a woman is emotionally wounded, we tend not to want to fuck away those feelings, while men love nothing more than doing just that. To guys, fucking is the universal shaking of the Etch A Sketch that returns all things back to square one. It’s truly as if men believe our emotional reset button is located deep in the cavity of our vaginas, and the only tool they can use to push it is conveniently attached to them via a tube of skin. “Hmmm. What can I use to get to that reset button, so deep up in there? What do I have handy? Gotta be long enough. Gotta use something that won’t get lost when pushed inside. Has to be something solid but with some bend to it, so that I can tap that button effectively. Hmmm, oh I know! This shafty thing between my legs that raises and lowers so well! It’s so perfect! It should come attached to me like some kind of Ikea-type Allen wrench fashioned out of epidermis. Oh, wait—it does!”

  Well, unfortunately for you guys, this is not where our emotional reset button is located. Finding our button is tough, because there is no one answer as to its location. It’s a little like putting a colicky baby to sleep. You must try out a bunch of different things. Soothing, feeding, patting, cuddling, rocking. Not just one of these things is always going to work, but most assuredly, a combination of these things will do it. And, eventually, even the fussiest of women will stop crying and nod off to sleep.

  So, what do women want? That’s about as easy to answer as “How do I make a woman come?” Like hormonally charged thumbprints, no two are alike. There’s a general recipe for action, but you people must always be prepared to wear emotional shock absorbers, bending and bouncing left when you were preparing to bounce right.

  What Women Never Want to Hear

  A few hard and fasts. Here are some things women never want to hear:

  Don’t ask women about hair removal. Ever. Period. Or our period. Ever. Period.

  Don’t notice if some weird, oddly located hair has suddenly gone missing. Or if it’s where it shouldn’t be. This is not the same as not noticing we got our hair cut or blown out, and feeling our wrath at not being noticed after we’ve gone to some lengths.

  Don’t notice if our legs are more shaved or less shaved. “Oh! You shaved your legs!” means that every other day, you believe our legs are too hairy. Don’t even notice if our pubic hair is almost or entirely absent, or almost or entirely natural. Don’t notice any of it. Pretend not to notice if you do. You probably won’t notice anyway. Just remember that the following is not a compliment: “Wow, your pubic hair grows really fast!”

  Other phrases to avoid:

  “Those jeans seem tighter.”

  “Okay if I skip hanging out with your friends? I don’t really have anything to say to them.”

  “You used to be fun/open to it/interested when we were first together.”

  “Something is smelly.”

  Never say—I mean, never say—any version of “Relax/calm down/you’re so emotional.” “I can’t understand you when you’re like this.” “You’re too emotional.” “What the hell are you crying about?” “Oh God. Stop crying. Stop it.” “I can’t listen to the crying.” “I can’t trust anything that comes out of your mouth four days a month.” Any variation of this riff isn’t good for you or your penis.

  Always Have an Opinion

  When we ask your opinion about something that you deem too slight or too who-cares or too why-are-you-bugging me, you still need to come up with an answer. Let’s start with the most superficial of all stereotypical examples. When she asks you which type of shoe you prefer—“This one or this one . . .? This? Or this?”—please do not say, “I don’t see the difference.” Even if that is your true opinion, you still may not say it. (Of course women have other interests than what shoes we wear on our feet. I might’ve said, “Which physics degree places a greater emphasis on the exploration of thermodynamics?” But for simplicity’s sake, let’s just go with this one.)

  Instead, pick a position. Here’s a secret about her: when she asks you which shoe you prefer, she already has a favorite. Please proceed here with terrific caution; this is a mind ambush. She wants her opinion echoed. She wants to be agreed with. This is a trap. So your opinion has to be an expansive one. Either agree with whatever she’s not saying out loud, or have a different opinion that makes better sense than the one she’s already surreptitiously chosen. If she’s asking you, it means she doesn’t want to hear the very Swiss-sounding middle-of-the-tepid-road “I like the one you like.” This will not fool or appease her. This means you’re not listening, and you’re a spineless dick. This will only piss her off. Angry heat will radiate off her. Why did she bother opening her mouth to ask you in the first place?

  So even if your opinion is “I don’t give a shit,” or “Can’t you see I’m thinking about a stupid mistake I made at work?” or “When was the last time I ate an apple?” or “Gasket!” Or “I miss all the women I’m not banging because I made a stupid vow to you. But that’s not enough; you’re still asking me about your idiotic shoes! Who cares! They’re just something you put on your feet!” No matter what your opinion really is, you must formulate a reasonably intelligent one. So instead, say, “I like the black ones.” Let’s say, in her head, she’s already picked out the navy ones. So your opinion, even though you don’t care at all, must be well thought out enough for her to believe that
you care. The most heinous of crimes is not having an opinion. It means you don’t care. And if you don’t care—which you probably don’t—it implies that you don’t care about her. Wait. How did she make that crazy leap? But she does. I know this doesn’t make sense to you. But to her, not having an opinion about the color of her shoes means you don’t love her.

  Told you we were complicated. So, just like the penis you’d prefer to shove down her throat, put your opinion there instead. Choose it. Stick to it. You say, “I like both, but if I really had to pick one, I’d say the black ones because they look good with the rest of your outfit, but they also remind me of the last time you wore them.” (Just bullshit your way through this; I know you don’t remember at all.) “I don’t know where we went, I just remember laughing a lot that night and thinking I was lucky to be with someone I love spending time with. Then I checked out your legs and thought they were extra sexy, so I made a mental note of the shoes you were wearing: the black ones.” Now, she can’t be mad at this, even if they’re not the shoes she originally, secretly wanted you to pick. You answered thoughtfully. You made it personal. You even loogied up a little morsel of something more; something yearning and emotional. And, if for some reason you didn’t get the answer right, there never was a right answer.

  Never Talk about Your Ex(es)

  Another tip: don’t compare your exes. “When I was with Francesca, she used to make me pull over to have sex with her on the side of the road. She couldn’t go more than a day without me inside her. But you’re not like that.” “When Desiree and I were together, she let me toe-bang her.” “One time in college, a girl, can’t remember her name . . . gave me a hand job at the library. I came on the books. I miss doing stuff like that.” Never discuss your exes. Especially in bed. She doesn’t want to imagine that your penis has ever been inside anyone or anything but her. (Unless she wants to imagine it inside someone else—and that’s, like, her thing.) But the rule here is that you should pretend your dick is a freshly forged sword; newly poured steel. Never before touched by human hand, much less sword-swallowed.

  It’s like when you move into a new house or apartment, and want to replace the toilet seat. You don’t want the ghost of asses having shat there before. Even more so, she doesn’t ever want to think about your penis (as in her penis) inside someone else. You can’t scour off the memories of where it’s been with steel wool, but you can certainly not discuss them. Your dick must be like a brand new toilet seat. If your sexual history ever comes up, just don’t remember anyone else, even though I know you replay them all, including the ones you haven’t even had, as you sploop inside her.

  I know you want to ask her, but don’t. “How many guys have you been with?” Men definitely want to know their partner is wanted by other guys, but you also want to believe that she desires only you. This is a very double-edged skin sword because you want to imagine your woman is gorgeous and interesting enough to be desired by many, but you don’t actually want to think about or hear the brush-stroke details of her fucking anyone but you. It’s sexy until it’s something you can never unknow.

  There’s also a terrifying moment between the question and the answer where you’re not sure if your level of sexual experience matches hers. You don’t want to be the guy who fucked six women, only to find out your fiancée’s sexual track record is vast. I guess some guys like to hear about their woman’s sexploits, but if they become too many and much (“He was so big, he couldn’t even fit the whole thing inside me . . . I mean, we tried . . .” “He made me bend over his Ferrari . . .” “We did it backstage at the Hollywood Bowl after his performance . . .”) . . . You get it. There’s this one central area in her body where all these dicks have undoubtedly hung out before you; it’s like the VIP room of her insides. Your dick is in the exact same place as his and his and his was. So don’t even start up this mental discomfort by asking. It’s not worth it.

  But do be ready to answer the question if she asks you. If your number is overwhelming, it will not impress her; it will just gross her out. That means your penis has no standards. If your number is underwhelming, we won’t think your demi-virginity is adorable. We will want you to already have worked out your kinks on someone other than us. Basic tip: just don’t ask, unless you’re certain you can deal with any answer that comes out of her mouth—and the truth won’t distract you the next time you’re coming in her mouth.

  It’s basic economics: most of us want the item that is highly valued and therefore sparse, nearing the bottom of the chafing dish on the buffet table. Far fewer of us want what others reject; the weird surplus of runny mayonnaisey raisiny carroty salad congealing in abundance.

  Women Are Easily Bored

  Women want stability, but are also very easily bored. These two feelings fight each other, but both are true. It’s the same for you guys; if you get too complacent, you lose interest. It’s like when a hunter’s prey just submits itself to be eaten (“the suicidal chicken”), then that food is way less tasty. Half the fun in the licking of the bones is procuring it, and knowing the value of how hard you’ve worked to obtain it.

  Some of you actually believe the rule of “The hotter the female, the worse you’re supposed to treat her.” You’re using the theory that if you treat her like shit, she will think she only deserves the love of a dickhead like you. Sure, you can take advantage of a woman who was emotionally or physically victimized earlier in life, and believes that she doesn’t deserve better. Your bad behavior will certainly intrigue these already complicated, broken creatures. Between treatments that place too much emphasis on her physical beauty (ombre dye jobs, invasive cosmetic surgeries and collagen injections, etc.), she may wonder, “Why isn’t this man treating me like a princess, the way all other men have always treated me?” This may momentarily snag and captivate her.

  The too-pretty woman walks through a world of cocktails purchased for her, and great valet parking spaces. This isn’t some urban legend. It is way better to be super beautiful—even though it comes with its own set of tough, albeit Vuitton, baggage. While the theory of treating someone like shit may occasionally work with a sexy coke-snorter in the short term, it is impossible to get what you actually want/need from her in the long term. Unless what you want is hostility, neediness, and her leaving you for someone else.

  So, be nice. Be kind. While women may want a bad boy occasionally, dating a true asshole will only make her realize she needs someone who is not an asshole. The asshole becomes the barometer for all men thereafter, and paves the way for her to meet an actual nice guy. You often hear about a woman being in a long-term relationship with an asshole, and then finally gathering enough courage to end it, only to meet and quickly marry someone great. The reason for this is because the asshole has spent years being what she doesn’t want in a person, so after him, it’s easy to identify a desirable partner.

  Are you a nice guy? The answer doesn’t have to be yes. Some of you just aren’t ready to commit. And then, suddenly, you are; it’s when you realize that it would be more intolerable to let that woman go than to lock her down for a lifetime. Some guys meet that person right out of the gate, and they’re good forever. And some are always on that quest, whether in a relationship or not.

  (Obviously some women aren’t ready to commit, either. So don’t pounce on me for not including women in the above sentence. Everyone’s so testy these days, eager to assassinate and deconstruct every position. Twitter has ruined personal points of view for everyone. I’m scared to admit any unpopular or off-popular opinions for fear of being publicly lashed. Like, okay, sometimes, I miss getting plastic bags at the grocery store. Okay, assholes, go for it! Everybody pile on and yell at me about my environmental shortsightedness! I just need something to stick a kid’s wet bathing suit in!)

  Women Want to Let Go of Control

  So, you all can get ready to ball up your fists when I say that all bad boys aren’t bad. As I mentioned before, most women want a little throw-down. Of cour
se I’m not talking about physical violence or verbal abuse in any way or shape. Just some light caveman shit here. One of the bestselling books of all time is the even newer testament Fifty Shades of Grey. I will admit to sneaky Kindle plane-reading it.

  But a woman needs to be reminded to let go of control. Moms with jobs are “working moms,” while dads with jobs are just “dads.” Mothers never ever clock out. We are constantly puppeting our kids with verbal instructions: “Don’t drag that! Stop, it’s leaving marks.” “Pick up your underpants and put them where they’re supposed to go. No, not there. No. No. The hamper. No. That’s not a hamper.” “Please stop sharing that story if chicken or macaroni is going to fall out of your mouth during the telling. No, it doesn’t make a difference if it’s chicken and macaroni.”

  A woman is instructive/caring/bossy in arduous and exhaustive repetition. Dante’s unmentioned Tenth Circle of Hell is the nagging associated with motherhood and wife-life. But she isn’t doing it to be annoying and grating, or to conjure up images of your own mother. She is controlling because she feels that her way of doing things is correct. Truth: she can’t imagine being any other way. And, if for some reason she’s not saying anything to you about the way you’re doing something, it’s because she is either biting her goddamned tongue or for some far more rare reason: that she imagines your way of doing it has inadvertently coincided with the way she would’ve done it.

  Someone needs to stop this ongoing Morse code of instructions on how to live life. That’s why we went out in droves and bought tons of copies of Fifty Shades of no fucking shit. Christian Grey was doing what we all occasionally need done. The handsome, rich, sexy caretaker was going to do just that. Some women need this mental permission to take a break. Most just need to read about it, or even hear some version of it whispered to them while fucking, without actually participating in real bondage. A woman needs permission to shut off her brain. A hundred million copies would most decidedly agree: a wave of people are relating to this in a big way.