Tell her you’re not miserable.
This is probably the most important one. Girls want to be with men who are happy and positive, who savor life and don’t worry about death. In other words, they want to be with idiots. Girls aren’t too crazy about guys like you, for whom every moment is one of nervous agony, for whom every challenge, no matter how small, is an opportunity for not success but humiliation, to whom death looks like a pretty sweet deal. Which isn’t to say that you don’t agonize over death, too, though, because of course you do, like every second.
Tell her your favorite beer is American and cheap.
If you tell her your favorite is a microbrew or, God forbid, a European beer, you might as well just tell her you like wearing women’s underwear and reading Sylvia Plath. On the other hand, a man who always orders bottles of Miller Lite, even when there are better, possibly cheaper beers available on tap, seems like a man who has no need for frills, a man who doesn’t give a shit about subtlety, a man who values unthinking routine over deliberation and enjoyment—he would probably eat shit sandwiches if one were delivered to his house at the same time every day—and a man who loves his country. And that, for some terrible reason, is the sort of man women want.
Tell her you think books are dumb.
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« My BellyMy Nipples »Not because girls think books are dumb, but because girls aren’t looking to have wild sex with a bookworm. They’re looking for a guy who wants to bury his face in their cleavage, not in a weighty tome on clothing and currency in seventeenth-century rural England. They want to be with the exciting, impulsive man who gets books written about him—Tommy “the Man” Greco: Date-Rapist or segxwal Pioneer, or Both?—not the sad little man who gets a vicarious thrill and a weak erection from reading such books.
Tell her you’re crazy about having sex with her.
Because if she believes that at least one person is enjoying your lovemaking, the prospect of getting back into bed with you might seem less unpalatable to her. She might see it as an act of charity, a display of self-sacrifice, perhaps even some form of self-flagellation. The whole thing will seem very Christian to her, probably, with her as the martyr and you as the inherently depraved and inadequate offspring of an indifferent God.
Tell her you suffered some serious injury in the past that radically altered your physique and coordination.
“God, I wish you coulda seen me before the accident,” tell her. “I was like a goddamn brick wall, and quick, too.” This way, she can happily imagine that she’s dating a jock, or at least what’s left of a jock. And before you know it, she’ll start to act as if she knew you before your “injury,” as if she fell in love with the muscular man who no longer exists, who, in reality, never existed. “He wasn’t always like this, you know,” she’ll say to her girlfriends, whom your slender build and annoying wit failed to impress. “Before his accident, he was different. He was athletic, and so cool, and he was built like a brick shithouse. God I miss those days.”
Tell her you’ve never contributed a short essay to the forum of a porn site.
In fact, tell her you’ve never contributed a short essay to any online forum. Because women don’t want to be with computer geeks, and they definitely don’t want to be with computer geeks who, when presented with the opportunity to watch people having sex on the internet, decide instead to write an argumentative essay on the Freudian segxwal politics of tranny-on-granny porn.
Tell her you don’t have any perversions.
No, best to keep those secret. Because even if she says she wants to try some kinky stuff, to explore your deepest fantasies, to realize your wildest dreams, she won’t be ready for the twisted crap that comes out of your unconscious. So when she asks what your filthiest, most rotten desire is, don’t tell her it’s to have your temperature taken with an anal thermometer by a portly woman in blackface. Tell her it’s to kiss a woman square on the lips without asking her first.
Tell her you don’t have any hobbies.
Because in a woman’s mind, hobbies are for losers. Stamp collecting, bird watching, war reenacting—these are all signs of weakness, the habits of a man whose discomfort with himself forces him to look for outside distractions. So hide your pogs under your bed, move your baseball card collection into storage, and when your girlfriend asks you what you like to do with your spare time, tell her you just like to chill with the guys or watch reality television. You’ll seem less intelligent and less interesting, sure, but to a woman, a guy’s being intelligent or interesting is merely overcompensation for some fundamental flaw in his character. As far as women are concerned, a guy who’s comfortable with his masculinity shouldn’t feel the need to be intelligent or interesting.
Tell her no girl has ever complained about your segxwal performance before.
Sooner or later—more precisely, right after the first time you have sex with her—your girlfriend is going to say something disparaging about your abilities in the bedroom. And despite that you’ve heard these same criticisms from every girl you’ve ever been with, you should lie and say, with slimy confidence, “Well all the other girls never seemed to complain.” This implies two false things—one, that you’ve been with a lot of women, and two, that the segxwal problem is not yours but your girlfriend’s. And if you can shatter your girlfriend’s confidence, you really ought to, because a girl with low confidence is a girl with low standards. And those are the kind of standards you can meet.
Tell her you’re scared of commitment.
When really, you’re just scared of dying alone. More specifically, you’re scared of dying alone before you have the chance to delete your internet history, so that the police find traces of all sorts of disgusting pornography on your computer. “Jeff Davies, dead at 36,” the obituary would read. “A human male who died just hours after doing what evidently he loved most—watching an online video of underage girls pooping.”
But when your girlfriend hears that you’re scared of commitment, her natural instinct will be to assuage your concerns by telling you how good the two of you are together. And by doing this, she will actually fool herself into believing momentarily that you’re good together, which, of course, is an insane notion.
Because really, she’d be better off with a Tommy Greco—a guy who doesn’t have to pretend he likes drinking Natty Ice and genuinely has no hobbies or interests—and you’d be better off with the safe, unsatisfying intimacy of an online relationship.
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