by Wanda Sykes
I guess what really annoys me about these classes is that it seems so needy. You’re literally bending over backward for his ass. He ain’t thinking about what he could do to please you or how to make himself more attractive for you. I was at a party and this woman started handing out her “I teach strip classes” card. She gave me one. I ripped that shit up before she could get it out of her hand good. Women do some silly-ass, demeaning shit. I was laughing at all of them, and I guess that vodka I was drinking saw the humor, too. I was like, “What is wrong with y’all? Fuck him. Do you think your man is out at some club or at the gym and another dude comes in handing out his card? ‘Hey, man, come to my pussy-lickin’ class. Your lady will thank you.’ ‘Hey, come to my ball-washing seminar; the ladies will appreciate it.’” No! He ain’t thinking about your pole-swirling ass. Women do some stupid shit.
Part Ten
“Ruff, Ruff”
You ever notice that whenever you get at least two women together, during the conversation one of them is going to say, “Men are dogs”? You hear it all the time, talk shows, dating shows, courtrooms, church, and usually right before, “Please, baby, don’t shoot!” I think calling men “dogs” is unfair. They aren’t dogs. I think they are just men. They can’t help it.
Men are not dogs. Why? Because I trust my dog. Come on, guys, I never found any strange panties in my dog’s car. My dog has never run up my phone bill calling some nine hundred number to talk dirty to some nasty ho. My dog has never had another master and family across town that he was hiding. No. Men are not dogs. Dogs are loyal, they protect you, and they can lick their own balls.
Guy Tip One
Here’s a tip for you guys. When a woman asks you to do something and prefaces it with “when you get a chance,” or “when you get around to it,” just stop what you’re doing and do the shit right then and there. When we ask, we really don’t mean when you get a chance, when you feel like it, or when you get around to it. No, we mean right now. If you do it, you’ll save yourself a lot of time and grief and a lot of arguments.
We say “when you get a chance,” because we don’t want to sound like we’re nagging you, so we make you think that you have an option to do whatever it is at your convenience. You really don’t.
Guys, I know you’ve been there. You’re watching the game. She comes in…
Wife: Baby, I was out gardening and noticed that the gutters are a little clogged up, so when you get a chance could you clean the gutters out? You know, when you feel like it.
Husband: Yeah, sure, no problem.
So you continue to watch the game because, fellas, you’ll clean the gutters when you get a chance. Twenty minutes later you hear footsteps, or more like somebody stomping on the roof. You go outside and her crazy ass is on top of the roof pulling crap out of the gutters that she asked you to clean when you got a chance.
Wife: I asked you to do just one thing, one thing and you don’t do it. You don’t do shit in the house. You don’t do shit outside the house. All you wanna do is sit on your lazy, good-for-nothing ass and watch that damn TV. I hate you. You sorry bastard.
Guys, don’t try to stop her; it’s too late. Just hang your head like the lazy bastard you’ve been called, turn around and go back into the house, get your car keys, and get the hell out of there.
This is how women operate. It’s passed down from generation to generation. I learned it at a very early age. I remember on Saturday mornings when my brother and I would be watching cartoons, my mother would ask us to do chores around the house.
Mom: Hey, when you get a chance, could you kids vacuum the living room? We’re having company over later.
Us: Sure, Mom.
Which really meant, “Get out of the way and get your face out of Pufnstuf’s ass.” We’d just stare at the TV and think, She said when we get a chance. Ten minutes later, Mom would come in, vacuum cleaner blazin’. She’d vacuum everything, just fuckin’ up the TV reception. We couldn’t see shit! She would be fussin’ and cussin’, but we couldn’t really hear what she was saying over the noise from the vacuum. I still jump whenever I hear a vacuum cleaner.
Guy Tip Two
We talk all the time. But it’s so hard for us to articulate exactly what we want, what we need, what we feel. Do you know how hard it is for us to be direct? It’s taught to us, because if we are direct we run the risk of being called a bitch. Right? So we gotta be a little tricky. Gotta be a little slick. Right? Instead of coming out and just telling you something or asking you something, we’d rather give you a test. Oh, we are some testing people, aren’t we? Boy, SATs ain’t got nothing on us. Women will give you a test.
Fellas, do you know that we fail you at tests that you don’t even know you’re taking? Failing miserably. You’re getting a big F, and don’t even know the test is in progress. How unfair is that? We test on everything, simple stuff, too. Okay, here’s the situation.
A guy gets home first and there are a few dishes in the sink. He doesn’t even bother washing the dishes. He chills reading the paper or maybe sneaks some porn time in or whatever. His girl comes home, sees the dishes, and sees him chilling. She ain’t gonna say anything, but it gets downloaded. She’s gonna create a little folder. Gonna be a little icon with his face on it. And it’s gonna say, “Dishes.” And she puts it right up there on the desktop of her mental computer screen.
Three more days and that same mess goes on. She comes home, sees him chilling, dishes in the sink. She just opens the file to store more info about his sorry ass. However, that fourth day, she comes home, sees him chilling. She’s gonna double-click right on his face. Click-click. Open up the folder. “Let me think about what this man is trying to tell me. What is he saying? Is he trying to tell me that I’m the little dishwasher around here? Huh? Is he telling me that washing dishes, that’s beneath him? Because you know what? I work every day, too. Maybe I’d like to come home to a clean sink, and go start my evening—you know what? I was not put on this earth to wash his dirty dishes. I tell you what. I’m not gonna wash another damn dish. And I’m gonna see how long he’s gonna let these dishes pile up before he’ll wash them.”
He doesn’t even know the test is going on. Three weeks go by. Now she’s so pissed she can’t even see straight because they’re walking around the house eating off of napkins with toothpicks. Ain’t a damn thing clean in the house. And he don’t care, because he’s like, “Shit, this is how I lived before I met your ass. Welcome to my world.” Oh, but it doesn’t end there, does it? Oh, no. Uh-uh. He’s just at the gates of hell right now. He ain’t in the fire yet. No.
Because with women, something that we’re pissed about in the kitchen is gonna walk its way right down the hallway into the bedroom. And guys don’t know. They have no idea. So he gets in the bed, trying to be all intimate, trying to get a little something going on. He’s doing his little poking thing. He’s in there behaving like an A student, not knowing he got a big-ass F. He’s in there poking and she just snaps on his ass. And now, he’s in the bed with cracked ribs. And he’s like, “What the hell is your problem? What’s wrong with you?” And she looks at him like he’s a stranger. “What, what, what, what is my problem? What’s my problem? You’re just all energy tonight, huh? Oh, you’re just bubbling with energy. You’re in here rubbing on me and touching my ass. But you can’t wash a muthafuckin’ glass? Why don’t I go sit in the dish rack, see if you notice me then, huh? Get off me.”
Door Number Two
I’ve dated all types. I must say, a cheap date can be good for a few laughs, that is, if you can afford them. The cheap dates always cloak themselves as romantics. They like doing things like going on long walks, visiting a museum, reading you poetry, bike riding, you know? Free shit. They love taking you on dates that don’t cost a thing. I remember this one dude used to give me one rose, and he had a corny line to go along with it, “I give you one rose because you are one special lady.” After a couple of dates I was like, “No, you give me one rose because
you are one cheap bastard.” My all-time favorite cheap date happened during the time I lived in New Jersey. He used to back up to the toll so that the booth would be on my side.
The Drive
Studies show that men think about sex all the time. Did they really need to do a study to figure that shit out? Pornography is a billion-dollar industry. I don’t think men are supporting it for fashion suggestions. I think it’s a waste of time for women to keep complaining about how men “just want sex.” “They think with their dicks.”
That crazy sex drive, it’s something in men. It’s part of their makeup. It’s innate. I believe it is part of the plan. It had to be that way. That’s why we still have people walking around on this earth. Men are baby makers, so they are always in that mode, “We gotta make more people. We gotta make more people.”
Women have the people, so we’re like, “Wait, who’s gonna take care of all these people? Get off me.”
Number One Fantasy
The number one fantasy for most guys is a threesome. They want to have two women at the same time. I think that’s a bit lofty. If you can’t satisfy that one woman, why do you want to piss off another one? Why have two angry women in the bedroom with you at the same time?
And guys, think about it—you know how much you hate to talk after sex. Imagine having two women just nagging you to death. “So what are you thinking? Come on, let’s talk.” The other one says, “Hold me. We never cuddle.”
Men can watch two women together and that’s a turn-on. It doesn’t work the same way for us ladies. You ask any woman her sexual fantasy and I bet you a million dollars it won’t be to go home and see your man bent over with some big, burly guy standing behind him smacking his ass, yelling, “Oh yeah. Say my name. Who’s your daddy?” Oh, that will ruin your day.
Feeling Twenty-six
I still feel and think the same way I did when I was twenty-six. I feel twenty-six. Especially after I have a few drinks. Oh, boy. Then it really kicks in. Right, ladies? You feel sexy when you drink. I’m thinking, I knew I was twenty-six. I don’t know what that lying-ass calendar was talking about. I’m twenty-six.
You’re at the bar, talking trash. Then you go to the ladies’ room, and you check yourself out in the mirror. You’re like, “You’re a sexy bitch. You little sexy—I’d fuck you.”
I went down to South Beach with four girlfriends. Hanging out in Miami on South Beach, drinking with our little thong bikinis on, letting it all hang out, feeling sexy, feeling twenty-six, until some real twenty-six-year-olds walk by. I had to put my drink down. “Pass me my sarong. It got windy out here, didn’t it?” Yeah, a little twenty-six-year-old wind just whipped through and blew my ass back to the real world.
I Feel Sexy
See, women love feeling sexy. Men like having sex. There’s a big difference. See, men don’t understand the difference between feeling sexy and not having sex. That doesn’t make any sense to them. They’re like, “Okay, wait a minute, okay, you feel sexy but you don’t want to have sex? Oh, that’s just impossible. I don’t understand that; that makes absolutely no sense.” Guys believe that you can’t feel any sexier than when you’re having sex. That’s the epitome of feeling sexy to guys. Guys are like, “Baby, you just don’t know how sexy you look in that doggy position. I’m telling you. So sexy! I’ve never seen you so sexy. And the way the light from the TV hits the side of your face. Oh, baby.”
100 Percent Pure Sex
I don’t blame guys for being horny all the time, because when you just look at the act of sex, guys got it made. They really do. Every time a man has sex he’s going to complete the act. For guys, sex is like going to a restaurant. No matter what you order off the menu, you walk out of there going, “Damn, that was good. Woooo! She put something special on that.” As he rubs his stomach, he says, “Ah, good, my compliments to the chef. Good Lord, that was tasty. Man, I want to hit this three, four times a day. I love this.”
Women, it doesn’t work like that for us. We go to the restaurant and order something. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes you gotta send it back. Sometimes you might get food poisoning. You keep having those hits and misses. You’re gonna want to skip a few meals, right? “Oh no, I’m not hungry today. I was thinking about starting my fast. I think now is a good time.” Or you may go, “Ya know, I think I may cook for myself today. It’s just something about the way I cook. I mean, it’s always filling. I mean, my cooking sticks to your ribs! I just love the way I cook, and ya know what? I’m a fast cook, I tell ya. I can whip ’em up. By the time it takes you to do one meal, I can make three!”
But guys get satisfaction every time. That must be wonderful going into it, knowing that you’re about to have a pleasurable sexual experience. That is amazing, because women have to get in the middle of it before we actually figure out if the train’s going to pull into the station or not. You’re there holding your bags, looking up the tracks, praying to see the light from the train; shit, you’ll be happy just to hear the engine or a whistle blow.
And then guys wonder why we fake it. It’s called time management. Ain’t no need to be up all night working on something when I know there’s been a derailment up ahead. I don’t need to be up all night working on something I know ain’t gonna happen. You’re just cutting into my sleep time now. Shoot, I tried to do us both a favor. Guys, don’t get your feelings hurt, just roll over and go to sleep.
Every woman has been in that situation. He’s working hard trying to make it happen when you already know it ain’t gonna happen. You glance over at the clock and you’re like, “Shoot, it’s one thirty in the morning! And I gotta get up at six. One thirty, two thirty, three thirty, four thirty, five thirty six thirty, oh, to hell with this. Ohhhh, yes, woooow, ohhhh, yes, baby, wooow, ooooh, Yes! Hercules, Hercules, Hercules, Hercules, Hercules, Hercules!”
Captain of the Vessel
I don’t need much in the bedroom. I appreciate the basics. Touch that, lick this, put that there…I’m cool. As a matter of fact, I hate those artistic fucks. You know, the ones where you feel like it’s been choreographed. Where you expect to see Debbie Allen standing in the corner, “And, one, two, three, legs up!” That shit gets on my nerves. I’m not gonna burn all of that energy until you prove to me that you know how to please me. If I burn two hours in the bed with you and at the end of the session I haven’t had a single, solitary orgasm, I’m ready to fight. You can get the hell out. Shit, I would have been better off spending that time at the gym. At least I would have lost a few pounds and maybe been able to attract somebody who knows how to fuck.
I enjoy sex, but to me there is a goal involved that we both should be striving for. Now if I know and you know how to reach that goal, why tinker with perfection? I don’t think I’m boring in bed. I like to consider myself efficient. If you’re doing something that I know isn’t working for me, I’ll let you stray for a few minutes, but then I’m going to get us back on course. I’m the captain of this vessel. You know if the ship is on course, the captain is usually below in his cabin chilling. The crew is taking care of business. Like the captain, I only pop up on deck when there’s a problem. “Hey, we’re sinking. This ain’t the Titanic, muthafucka. Bail! Bail!”
I don’t like food mixed in with my sex, either. I’m not putting whipped cream on nothing. If you don’t like it plain, then kiss my ass and get out. Plus, everything doesn’t agree with my stomach. A banana split sitting in my gut is seriously going to affect my performance. What’s wrong with good, old-fashioned sex? Edible panties, that’s some bullshit. This country is fat enough already, now we got to have a snack during sex, too?
As you can see, I’m an impatient mu’fucka. So I let you know up front, if you know how to please me, just stick with that. Don’t get fancy on me; stay the course that gets me there. Don’t try some new route that you don’t know shit about, because now you’re just going to get all lost, fumbling around. And just like a man, you’re not going to stop and ask for directions. No, you�
��re just going to keep going until you run out of gas. Leaving me stranded in the middle of the ocean, not even a breeze blowing for the sails. Now I gotta row just to get myself there.
Part Eleven
Moving to the Left
The most difficult adjustment moving to Los Angeles is dealing with all this damn driving. To get anywhere in L.A., you gotta drive. You have to drive somewhere if you want to go for a walk. I hate all that damn driving because it interferes with my drinking. See, this is why I love me some New York. You have the ability to drink to your fullest potential in New York because of all the public transportation and those beautiful cabs. In L.A. I’ve seen bus stops and people at them waiting, but I haven’t seen a bus yet. I don’t think they exist.
But in New York, I just love the fact that all you need is five dollars in your pocket and your address pinned to your collar and you get home. All you have to do to get that cab is stand at the curb and raise one arm…and make sure your black male friend is out of sight. When I’m in New York, I’m at the bar drinking, the bartender comes over, “Uh—can I get you another one?” If I can still raise my arm: “Oh, yeah. I could have about two more.” Because in New York—that’s all you have to be able to do. Just wander your ass to that curb, and raise your arm.