Sloppy Seconds: Why Some Men Double-Dip.

Like putting my hand on a hot stove, eating human flesh, or walking into a gay club wearing assless chaps, there are some things I innately just don’t want to do. Not only do I have no desire to do these things–they actually repulse me. I think for most sane, heterosexual men, the same is true.

There are certain things we like and things we just…don’t. We like Jessica Biel’s ass, but not Kimbo Slice’s. We like when our boys bring girls to the party, but not when our girls bring boys. We prefer our phone calls resemble the way we shop: with an objective and a sense of brevity, and definitely not “just to see how you were feeling???” And, until recently I thought, we like getting a girl ourdamnselves, and avoiding our boy’s sloppy seconds at any and all costs…

But, alas, it appears I am wrong.

What I believed was the overwhelming natural drive of the human male instinct to steer clear of anywhere his homeboy has put “his pipi” has now been relegated to the conscientious preference of an enlightened and reasonably secure modern man, who out of respect–both of you and himself–chooses to not double-dip his pig in a blanket (or sans blanket as the case may be). In other words, I think putting my pipi where my friend’s pipi has been is kind of gross (within a reasonably long time frame), and though I know a lot of you agree, apparently, the sentiment is not unanimous. Still, baffled by this revelation, I decided to dig deeper–to uncover the root of my aversion to hand-me-down vagin.

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The Lonely Soldier

There comes a time towards the end of the night when we all face complete danger and vulnerability to his evil works. We must guard against his will and beware of his attack at all costs. He almost always decides to make an appearance from the hours of 3-6 AM while our wits are weakened by alcohol and our minds defenseless to fight. Most victims fear the embarrassment and social torment he may cause. And most don’t realize they’ve been hit until morning when its too late. We all become him. His name is “The Lonely Soldier”; the grim reaper of all drunk dials and texts. And he’ll make you wish you weren’t born….for at least 48 hours.

You’re out, you are having fun, and all is good in the world. The cameras are flashing, the music is to your liking and the atmosphere has all the makings of a great time. Just another day in the single life, “yeeeeeeeaaaaa.” You have reached the mountaintop! This is it! You are Dr. Stephen J. Ironcock (the Destroyer) and you will not be stopped! You’ve been grinding on the dance floor with most of the top 10 heavyweight contender chicks in the room…and even got a couple of looks from the elite 3 who are in the hall of fame. In your warped mind your face is up on Mt. Rushmore next to the presidents and you are gripping basketballs on the cover of Sports Illustrated; highly touted as the next big time player! At the height of this little Roman Empire your buddies are happy to just be a part of the action, just like the guys who passed the ball to Michael Jordan in the ’90s or splashed water on Mike Tyson in between rounds in the ’80s, all wearing jumpsuits that read “TEAM YOU”. And why shouldn’t they? You’re the one spending all the money! But something awful happens…3am sneaks up on you like a midget in a cornfield…and the fall from grace is hard.

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Are YOU a “Barter-Whore”?

It happens every weekend. You’ve probably seen it and just never realized it was going on. Maybe… you’ve even been a victim of it… I’m talking about…

“Barter-Whoring”.

Over the years I’ve observed this troubling epidemic–one that is as subtle and difficult to identify as it is repulsive when finally diagnosed. At surface level, it appears to be nothing more than admittedly shallow, but nevertheless innocent, socializing between men and women of a common age. But under closer scrutiny, what is revealed is a ring of prostitution the likes of which the Western Hemisphere has never seen.

Now for those of you who went to LaSalle, here is a brief definition to help you understand the concept (pay special attention to #3):

bar·ter (verb) [bahr-ter]

Let’s look at an example:

It starts innocently–”Fulanita de Tal is attending VELVET-ROPE LOUD MUSIC PARTY WEDNESDAYS @ Club Pretense”. The party is hosted by her “friend” who she “loves” and whose Facebook wall is littered with quotes from her like, “Where have you been hiding????????? lol”, evidencing this firm adoration. Come Wednesday, she yanks on her favorite IOS pattern dress, blow-dries her hair straight, and texts her “BFF” telling him that she’s on her way.

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The Purple Car Wash

Don’t go to the purple car wash. You may think you want to go to the purple car wash, but you really don’t. “It’s so easy, though. I just walk through the tunnel and when I walk out, my car is nice and clean.” I know. That’s what they want you to believe.

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