We all have sexual pet peeves. I’d like to share one of mine with a charming little anecdote. It was well into a school night before an 8 a.m. class. I had barely stepped into my frumpiest PJs when my text alert sounded. “I’m lonely… get ur hot ass over here!” While my scholastic priorities normally refuse a booty call past 12 on a weeknight (or any night “Flavor of Love” aired), this particular night was an exception. My encounters with this chap were becoming quite frequent — it was time for a special treat. So I stepped into my new lacy underthings and high-tailed it to his downtown apartment. Upon arrival, I unabashedly shed my clothes, my spanking-new-laced-glory awaiting his response. He paused.
“All right… take that shit off!”
$100 lingerie. Take that shit off? Are you fucking kidding me?
Let me ask you this, gentlemen: How many times a day do you stare at that Jessica Alba bikini poster on your wall? Granted, I know you’d give your right nut to rip that number off with your teeth and yell “Cowabunga!” but let’s delve a bit deeper. What is it about that bikini that keeps you staring? Is it the way it sits just below her hipbone, making her curves trail for miles? How about the way it dips with her ass? Or pushes her breasts together so tightly a toothpick couldn’t fit between them? For all you know, she could have a third nipple hiding under there, but that doesn’t matter. The power of the bikini compels you.
This is what keeps us scouring the racks of Victoria’s Secret on a Friday afternoon, pouring over awkwardly-lit dressing room mirrors and forking over ungodly portions of our paychecks. We’ve seen the way “Into the Blue” flips you backward in your chair. While the cheesy script and questionable acting should inspire the same smart ass remarks from you that “The Notebook” does, you’re far too entranced to notice. We want that. And when we find the little ensemble that screams chair-flipping potential, we’re ready sign our first born over to greedy ol’ Vicky.
Imagine our dismay when our perfectly-calculated striptease earns a lukewarm reception. I liken the feeling to getting playfully punched in the breast by my friend in the sixth grade. Sure, he meant no harm and I laughed it off. But on the inside, my bruised booby and I wanted to punch him right back in the love sack. Being the self-preserving women we are, we refrained. Hence, a woman’s game face as you rip her Danielle Steele dream to shreds. Next time she smiles and honors your request to de-bra, know she’d rather de-ball. You.
No need to justify yourselves; I’ve heard your story. Women are so sensitive. Don’t they understand? Your urgency merely means to say, “I need you now.” But in our eyes, your urgency says, “I need you to take that off now so I can shove my dick into something slightly resembling Jessica Alba’s pussy.”
Harsh, I know. Welcome to the psychological shitfest that is a woman’s mind. But let’s put all accusations of Alba/Hilton/Jolie/Day-O’Connor fantasies aside. If you really are just an oblivious little soul looking to please a girl, save yourself some of the tears, silent treatments and door-slams that only further prolong the disrobing process. I’m not suggesting you drop to your knees and declare her body the Eighth Wonder of the World (although it wouldn’t hurt). All we really ask for is acknowledgment of our effort — it is for you. So curb the caveman and admire for a minute. Tell her she looks beautiful. Make her turn around. Smack her ass. We dig that shit.
Ladies, if he still refuses to meet you halfway, then I suggest you stop bringing it. After all, if the ultimate objective is to wind up naked, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you opting for something more economical… say, your trusty oversized grannies or your ex’s boxers. Hey, if he suddenly prefers the old stuff, maybe he’ll do some investing of his own. And trust me, when the goods are on his dime, you’ll never be taking them off. Not even through his 6-hour Cartoon Network marathon. Hot.
Still no compromise? Keep a jar bedside labeled “Lingerie Fund.” A dollar goes in for every orgasm your partner doesn’t have. Pony up your pennies, boys.
Stay ifnormiavte, San Diego, yeah boy!