Strippers are smart, savvy women who know how to charm a man without actually having sex with him. So tread lightly. That girl grinding against you in the corner booth doesn’t actually like your shirt. She’s just delivering one of the many tip-inducing compliments she learned at l’Académie Strip-Teaseuse in Quebec. She, in fact, fancies herself an ultra-postmodern feminist: a woman who combines smart business sense with a smoking hot body to earn a cool $5,000 a night giving you a wicked case of blueballs. She enjoys having power over you. It’s her way of asserting her female dominance for the brief period during the day when she isn’t being sexually harassed by the club owner or being accused by her bounty hunter boyfriend of being a no-good whore. It’s the kind of women’s lib Gloria Steinem always dreamed of.
If you want to date a stripper, you have to put yourself on equal ground. Never hit on her in the club. It’ll make you look weak and creepy. Trust me. Never works. Instead, buy her a shot and ask her if she’d like to hit a club after her shift is over. Once out of the club, she’ll shed her professional superficiality and engage you with her normal, female superficiality. Turn on the charm from there and you’re in for a night of real, nonpantomimed sex.
If you’re lazy and want strippers that double as hookers (and who doesn’t?), I strongly suggest catching a flight to Montreal. Strippers there will do the pas de deux on your beignet for a mere pittance.
(Note: Clip out the above section and bring it in to your local strip club before 3:00 p.m. to receive $3 off the $20 nonalcoholic beverage of your choice.)
ACTRESS / MODEL / SINGER. It’s easy to get a date with an actress, model, or singer. Simply have your agent contact her agent, and then give OK! magazine a call and sell them the photography rights for your intimate evening out. There’s no more spontaneous way to meet someone.
But beware! An actress is a career woman who will only couple with you as a means of enhancing her celebrity profile. A famous woman can always increase her Q rating by fifty points simply by nailing another famous man. You’re a résumé builder for her: a stepping-stone to an even higher echelon of celebrity. And no amount of attention will ever be enough to satisfy her undying need for the spotlight, or bring her absentee father back. Once she has a chance to hook up with someone who’s more famous than you, she’ll happily kick your C-list ass to the curb. Not so much fun to be on the other side of Relationship Control Tilt-A-Whirl, is it? Like Tony Parker, you now occupy a level of importance in your woman’s world somewhere between publicist and handbag.
JAILBAIT. Is she over eighteen, or over twelve in Louisiana? Are you sure? Buy a black light and scan the shit out of her driver’s license. You wouldn’t believe what kids can do with computers these days. Also, does she twirl her hair and snap her gum a lot? Does she spend the majority of her time text-messaging? Does she like Maroon 5? Is her bed surrounded by nothing but Pound Puppies and a golden picture frame that says “Daddy’s Little Girl”? Did R. Kelly hit it? Was Mark Chmura at the same party where you two met? Abort! Abort! Abort!
FEMALE ATHLETE. Does she play tennis or beach volleyball? Nice. That’s a real nice job. The great thing about dating female athletes is that you two will be able to relate to each other on a professional level. Hell, you can even work out together. And chicks who work out are hot. Especially if they wear those little spandex hot pants and do those little lunge exercises and holy shit my pants just exploded. The problem with dating a female athlete is that girls who are way into sports are far more annoying than girls who don’t give a shit about them. Don’t believe me? Just you watch. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Enjoy having nothing to enjoy by yourself.
NORMAL, SANE WOMAN. Sometimes, you hit the jackpot and encounter a lovely, normal woman who loves you for the person you are. She’s gorgeous without being haughty about it. She challenges you, but only because she genuinely believes in your potential. She even cooks. The truth is, the majority of women out there are perfectly well-adjusted, wonderful people. The problem is that you have become so conditioned to distrust and objectify women thanks to this section that you will find a way to mess it up. Serves you right, pig.
* * *
DID YOU KNOW?
The average woman uses three times more words per day than the average man. Therefore, I strongly suggest you avoid average women.
* * *
From a thousand feet away, they don’t look like transvestites: cheerleaders.
Almost every pro football and basketball team has a group of cheerleaders (except for the Packers, due to the scarcity of attractive female Wisconsinites). Why baseball doesn’t have them is unknown. If any game could benefit from the presence of large-breasted remedial nursing students dancing around in outfits the size of a Wet-Nap, it’s baseball. After a forty-five-minute inning, everyone could use some titties. Even the children. But smart ideas have never been baseball’s forte, so you’ll have to do without if you’re a big leaguer.
HEAR IT FROM A GROUPIE!
Damn, you look fine
by Shanna Franklin
Oooooh!
My, my, my, my goodness.
Damn.
You look fine, boy.
Yeah, you definitely had it goin’ on out there. Runnin’ and jumpin’ and flexin’ that little tushie of yours. You like what I’m wearing? I wore it just for you tonight. It’s not easy getting into a dress made entirely of vulcanized rubber. Yeah, I saw you looking at me in the stands. What, you think I can’t see? Ha ha! You’re feisty. I like that.
(bites lip)
Mmm.
Shit.
Listen, baby, why don’t we go somewhere and talk? Just you and me. How about that empty stairwell over there?
(takes you to empty stairwell and rides you like a carousel)
WHOA. Seriously, hold up. That was so fucking real. I’ve never felt like that before with anyone. Anyone. Baby, that’s only the beginning. There’s so much more I can do for you. You want more? You want all of this?
(You nod.)
Call me the next time you’re in town, baby.
(You call the next time you’re in town.)
Holy shit! Oh my God, you make love like no other, baby. Can you see my legs shaking in these thigh-high pleather boots? My legs don’t shake like that for no one else. Swear. To. God. You’re different. You’re special. Do you think I’m special?
(You nod.)
Tell me there’s no other, baby.
(You tell her there’s no other.)
You want more of this?
(You nod.)
Well, you just gonna have to wait. I don’t give it out like Halloween candy. I’m a lady, you know. I’ll see you soon, baby.
(Two months later)
Baby, I got something to tell you. I’m pregnant. And I’m having the baby. Don’t try and talk me out of it. Go ahead and try and talk me out of it. Go on. Try. HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TALK ME OUT OF HAVING THIS BABY? I thought you were special, and now you want to go runnin’ like a little punk bitch? Why don’t you stand up and be a man? No, no, no, see, a real man would be loving, and supportive, and would provide for his family. Oh, yes, I am family now. I’m as much family to you as your mama. Don’t you turn away from me! Don’t you walk out that door!
(You walk out the door.)
(Two months later)
I miss you, baby. Can’t we just be friends? No pressure. No sex getting in the way of things. I’d just like to see if we can have a good relationship. You know, for little baby (your name) Jr. Do you like that name? I named him after you. C’mon over, baby. Let’s see if we can work things out.
(You come over and have sex.)
What’chu mean, you have to go? No, no, no, we are here now. We are in this. You are in this. Don’t you walk out that door, you gutless motherfucker!
(throws lamp)
(Four months later)
What’chu mean, YOU GOT ANOTHER GIRL PREGNANT?! Well, who the fuck is she? Did she name her child after you like I did? She did? Well then, you
got yourself one big confusing-ass problem then, don’t you? I’m not changing the name. And we’re getting married. Oh, yes we are. Or would you like me to go on Oprah and tell the whole world you ain’t nothing but a fuckin’ dog?
(You get married.)
Baby, I’m so happy. We’re gonna have a great life together. I’m gonna be a great wife. I’ll stay home, take care of the kids. We’ll get old and sit on the porch together, laughin’ at our grandkids. It’s gonna be so magic. Baby, I love you. Do you love me?
Do you?
No?
GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS HOUSE.
Now, for the rest of you, your cheerleading squad may have some sort of empowering, euphemistic nickname to disguise its true purpose: the Knicks City Dancers, the Laker Girls, the Jacksonville 65 Percent Meth-Free Jazz Hands Ensemble, etc. Don’t be fooled. If it’s female, and it’s allowed to roam temporarily on your field of play, then by God it’s a cheerleader. They are meant to be ogled creepily. So feel free to ogle away. Be sure to stare one or two seconds longer than is normally appropriate (appropriate ogling time being 1.8 seconds). They’re used to it.
In recent years, many teams have increased the sex appeal of their cheerleading squads in order to sell calendars, swimsuit videos, and videos about the making of the first swimsuit video. Of course, the cheerleaders receive no royalties from the sale of these products. But they do help serve an important altruistic purpose: to create a team-branded mental archive of fresh masturbation material for fans of all ages.
Cheerleaders are an interesting breed. Yes, they’re way hot, especially when encased in a two-inch layer of high-gloss enamel foundation / body glitter. But they also make fabulous drug mules. And, above all, they love themselves some pro athlete manmeat. You, my friend, have something every cheerleader wants: a one-way ticket out of earning minimum wage, living in a group house, and being trapped in a career of semisexual indentured servitude. Being a cheerleader means having to train twelve hours a day to perform three forty-five-second dance routines that no one will pay attention to, then spending the entire off-season shuttling between any number of hotel sales manager conferences and Bar Mitzvahs. So it’s understandable that they might want to latch on to you and hold on with the grip of a thousand starving condors.
But beware! Most teams discourage fraternizing between employees (see your team’s “Don’t Shit Where You Eat” educational pamphlet, located in the lobby of your practice facility). Technically, you and your team’s cheerleaders are both employed by the team, which makes dating a risky endeavor. This might seem odd, since you train in separate areas. And you never actually work together. Nevertheless, cheerleaders are off-limits. Sure, it’s tempting to offer them a bump of coke to let them suck you raw. But you should refrain. You don’t want to break up with someone who also has an ID pass to the locker room.
If you must flirt with cheerleaders, be selective. Most cheerleading squads have a similar makeup. There’s the head cheerleader. She’s the one shrieking directions to all the other girls and looks ten years too old to be a cheerleader. Avoid this woman. You don’t want to know how she got to the top of the cheerleading “pyramid,” so to speak. Lots of passive-aggressive behavior involved.
Try to aim for the freshest faces on the squad. They’re the ones who exhibit genuine enthusiasm and have yet to realize that being a professional cheerleader does not make one a celebrity. Go ahead and give them a quick smile from the bench. If they smile back, you may be in for a solid season and a half of high-quality eye-banging, give or take (the average cheerleader squad turnover rate is four months). This in itself can be quite fun. You can even involve them in your showboating mime routines. Chad Johnson once faked proposing to Cincinnati Ben-Gal (yes, that’s the name of the Bengals cheerleaders) Daphne in a 2005 game against the Colts. You know he totally hit that later on.
You may also find yourself flirting with a lesbian cheerleader. To this, I would again caution you. In February 2006, witnesses said two members of the Carolina Panthers cheerleading squad were having smoking hot girl sex in a Tampa nightclub bathroom. Sounds arousing, right? I suggest not exploring the story any further. The picture in your mind is so much hotter than what the Smoking Gun dug up.
How to make love like a pro.
Now that you’re a pro, you’ll find that expectations in the bedroom are as high as the ones you encounter on the field. Like fans, women will enter into congress with you expecting to be positively dazzled. They’ll have plenty of preconceived notions of what bedroom relations with you will be like: a stunning display of sexual acrobatics that leaves no position or orifice unexplored, with trumpets blaring and Chinese firecrackers bursting in the background, and maybe Phil Rizzuto appearing in a cameo. That’s a big fantasy to live up to, given the general difficulty of simply maintaining an erection. So I suggest getting your female counterpart drunk. I mean, totally fucking blotto. If she can’t remember anything, then she can’t remember that banging you was about as special as having Ramen noodles for dinner.
But let’s say you’re going out with a girl who isn’t all that into drinking. First off: what a tightass. Second, you need a plan to ensure that you’re performing some serious penile sorcery when the clock strikes mating time. The key is variety. I’ve gathered positions and techniques inspired by some of the biggest names in sports to get your ladyfriend screaming like a Tom Jones audience member. And now, I present them to you in this handy and somewhat titillating study guide. As Abraham Simpson said, think of me when you’re having the best sex of your life.
THE YAO MING. First, place an ironing board on a chair or a sofa. Then, using heavy twine, lash the structure together to make a crude scaffold. Place your partner atop the structure and have at it, doling out gracious compliments as you go.
THE BILL PARCELLS. Lift gunt. Insert yourself. Release gunt. Repeat as necessary.
THE KOBE BRYANT. Bend partner over couch or credenza. Finish. Flee Colorado.
THE BRIAN BOSWORTH. Sit your woman down on the bed. Tell her she’s in for the ride of her life. Dim the lights. Turn up The Best of Otis Redding. Retire to the bathroom and return in your finest silk robe. Pop open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Fall asleep.
THE MARK FIDRYCH. Have mind-blowing sex the first time out and terrible sex every time thereafter.
THE DAN MARINO. Take your partner to dinner at the finest Japanese restaurant in town. Ask for the omakase dinner. Shock your ladyfriend by being conversant in Japanese with waitstaff. Take her to a four-star Broadway show. Establish an incredible rapport. Talk about your dreams. Share an embarrassing story or two. Make her laugh a surprising amount. Take her home. Tell her you had a really great evening. Lean in for a kiss. Get the door slammed in your face. Repeat for seventeen more dates.
THE ANDRE AGASSI. Make love to your woman on a bed, on the carpet, on the bathroom tile, and on a beach. Declare yourself a master of all fucking surfaces.
THE KEN GRIFFEY JR. Bring your woman to the very precipice of an earth-shattering, lip-quivering orgasm. Pull up with a cramp. Blame the hotel room massage staff. Try again at the Waldorf-Astoria with the exact same results.
THE ALEX RODRIGUEZ. Ask her if she orgasmed. Continue wondering what you did wrong.
THE PHIL MICKELSON. Get cocky during intercourse and attempt the notoriously difficult “Rodeo” maneuver. Get bucked off your partner, fall off the bed, and shoot your load out a window, shattering the windshield of a nearby helicopter, which then plummets into the middle of the freeway, killing everyone on board, along with numerous innocent motorists on the ground. React with a dopey, shit-eating grin.
THE BABE RUTH. Point at her vagina. Insert penis. Bring her to orgasm in three seconds. Light a cigar. Eat a hot dog.
THE ALLEN IVERSON. Start making love immediately. When she asks you about foreplay, give her a look of disgust.
THE ’86 MET. Bring partner into bedroom. Lay her down gently. Tell her to close her eyes. Bring midget, Girl Scout troop, and panda bea
r into the room. Kill the lights. Crank Foghat at the highest volume possible. Take out bullwhip and can of Reddi-wip. Snort line. Put on Indian headdress. See what happens.
THE CURT SCHILLING. Nail her. Blog about it.
THE TED WILLIAMS. Bring her to orgasm. Spend the next eighty years lecturing everyone within earshot about how you were able to do it.
All of these techniques will help you establish a solid reputation as a freewheeling dynamo when the lights go out. You should be able to parlay that sexual goodwill into increasingly hot and freaky encounters with any number of attractive partners. With any luck, you’ll amass so much sexual experience that you’ll cease being a normal human being and transform into a soulless stalker constantly in search of the next fresh body to use for depraved, empty acts of pleasure. Regular sex simply won’t be enough for you. You’ll develop all sorts of bizarre fetishes and masochistic tendencies to compensate for the lack of real emotional love and support in your life.
It’s the kind of life every man dreams of. Provided, of course, that you’re single and able to do all these things. You are single, aren’t you?
What? You married your high school sweetheart?
You idiot! How could you do that? You’ve known you had potential professional athletic ability since you were a preteen. Yet you still married little Stacy Jo anyway? You jackass.
Oh, you love her? Well, of course you love her! No shit, Romeo! Ninth-graders will fall in love with anything! One time a girl in my class helped me pick up my pencil box after it fell out of my bag. I stalked her for the next three years. Love at that age isn’t real. It’s far too spontaneous and natural. You’re an adult now, buddy. Love should be a calculated emotion that fluctuates depending upon certain matters of practicality. Don’t you know how the real world works, you naive little child?
Have you even been to Miami yet? Good fucking Lord. The women there are so hot, they had to fill the rest of the city with gay Cuban men just to ease the sexual tension. And you got married without even paying a visit? Idiot!