Because I’m the kinda girl who likes to look out for her boys….or, “you, too, can get laid.”

I have heard it said, time and time again, that a woman knows whether she will sleep with a man within five minutes of her meeting him.

This is a bunch of bullshit.

More incredulous still, is the context where this faulty (I will call it “logic” but please note my reticence to do so) “logic” is most famously applied. As I’ve heard it, men gift other men with this gem as a consolatory “chin up” when a fellow penis-haver has failed to seal the deal with his lady love. Invariably, this theory is met with a chorus of “Yeah, man, women stay bullshittin,’” followed by the obligatory anecdotes detailing how each individual tenor has similarly experienced said “bullshittin’.” Ultimately, the cerulean-testicled friend’s confidence is reassured, his belief in the female libido eviscerated, and once more, all is right with the world.


This is a bunch of bullshit.

Now, I’m not speaking, personally, mind you, but I happen to have it on good authority that a woman can wake up in the middle of the night with a man, and wonder aloud, to no one in particular, “How in the fuck did he get here?” I can also attest to, again, not personally speaking, mind you, this feeling being immediately followed by an intense compulsion to call your local police, as surely some egregious wrong has been perpetrated on your person.

No, bitch, you went with that mongrel free and clear. You all but begged him back to the crib.

But the question still remains: How did he get there?

And if the late night troll-in-bed scenario is entirely possible, how can one account for the gaping chasm between the hobgoblin under your duvet and the smurf-nuts idiot-philosopher above?

I have the answer.

y’all are fucking up.

Simple, isn’t it?

I’ve found that most things in life generally are.

Now, before I continue, I’ll break to disclose the purpose of my no-doubt startling revelation, as many of my fellow vagtastics will assume that I’m betraying the sisterhood.

I’m not. I’m trying to save us all a little bit of time and heartache, and you know what else—a little dignity.

There is nothing worse than a man who has taken some fatal misstep, unbeknownst to himself, who continues to nip at a woman’s heels, salivating at the jowls for the ass he will never see.

And I would imagine that–for a man paying a sky high rent or mortgage, in the midst of a recession, in an area boasting one of the highest costs of living in this country–15 dollars per drink for a chick planning on riding shotgun in her girlfriend’s camry at the end of the night, ain’t exactly what’s hot in these streets.

So my motives are pure.
I’m fighting the good fight, people.

Now, as is the case with all things beautiful and magical in this world—such as the prospect of unexpected monkey sex with the whiskey-handsome man before you—there is a delicate balance to be observed. Any slightest thing can potentially burst your monkey sex bubble.

Fellas, please understand that a woman at the ready is something like a unicorn one happens upon in a mythical, enchanted forest. One must take care to tread softly and with the greatest degree of caution, and, if at all possible, with the most conservative use of communication feasible, limiting any talking at all to the sparsest, most hushed whispers.

So many times I’ve listened to men vent about that unicorn that’s escaped into the wood, leaving nothing but fairy dust in her midst. Each one has stood before me, gesticulating wildly, righteously indignant in his stance, shouting out protestations of, “She was bullshittin’!!!”

Never does it occur to them that maybe even some small, seemingly innocuous, undetected thing that they’ve done (and more often than not said), has lit a fire to that unicorn’s ass.

As a woman, personally maligned by these rants of rejected suitors, I’ve taken it upon myself to divert from the beaten, trodden path, and offer some advice by way of example.

That’s right, fellas.

I’ma help you fuck your unicorn.

Now, before I give you the rules, a few disclaimers, if you will.

1. Sometimes a woman’s a bitch. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t want to fuck you. These are not interrelated concepts. That is to say, part 2 doesn’t mean part 1. Got it?
2. I’m no doctor, but I bet there’s research to support the contention that one finds higher incidences of herpes among the type of bitches that routinely walk out of that door with strange man in tow, Friday after Friday. That being said, a woman’s sexual prerogative is motivated by any number of things: maybe she had a fight with her boyfriend and is on getback; maybe she’s pushing 30 and needs some cheap validation of her youth; shit, maybe she just got her hair done and is feelin’ extra fly. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to sniff out the non-dirty whore in the bunch. Then again, maybe you’ll wake up and pee fire.

And…………. The Rules.


This shit is in all caps for a reason. It is the number one most violated rule in all social interaction in the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan Area. The more you talk, the more likely you are to say some out of hand shit that will no-doubt render you the most unfuckable man ever. Nobody likes a talky man. UNLESS he’s funny. And even that’s a delicate card to play as it can sometimes be confused with “young acting.” Trust me on this one. Just shut the fuck up. We’ll think you’re mysterious. And that makes us want to get to know you. Biblically.

II. Stop bragging. Please.

Contrary to popular male thought, a woman couldn’t care less about what you have. This is especially true for the typically high-achieving, educated group of women who flock to this city in droves. If the chick is in the same spot as you, she probably has everything you have. Yes. Everything you have. Including that one thing that you know you have that she doesn’t have. And she has it in hot-pink, lavender, and chocolate thunder. We’re not exactly husband hunting at the spot blasting Roscoe Dash that has chewing gum under the counter, so stop telling me about what all you’ve got. Nothing makes hot run cold like a man obsessed with how awesome he is. While most women will tolerate, and indeed be mildly attracted to, some measure of arrogance, we cannot abide vanity. It’s gross and effeminate. If we were in the habit of fucking bitches, we’d be in a different kind of bar.


I’m sorry. I just got off the phone with a talky ass dude. I just needed to say it again in case the message isn’t getting through.

IV. Don’t dog my steps.

Look. I want to dance with you, cause I think you’re kinda cute, and you smell like heaven. And maybe you’re confused because I just did a handstand while gyrating my crotch in your face. But, I don’t need you to be all up under me all night. It’s annoying, and frankly, a bit scary. We’re not engaged, random-man-at- the-club. You haven’t exactly approached my father with a tureen of basmati rice and a goat. So let me be for a minute. I’ll be back, promise. You saw me do like a hundred shots, already. *whisper* Relax. You got this.

V. Compliment with care.

Now, personally, I am made uneasy by excessive compliments, as they have an air of disingenuousness about them. However, feel free to compliment my dress, my hair, whatever if it gets the ball rolling. Now, I apologize to anyone for whom this is old hat, but based upon past experience, I am compelled to note that, “Man you gotta fat ass,” and “Damn that fat ass is lookin good,” or even last week’s curbside cry of “I got two hun’ned dollas on that ass raaaiiiy—tt nay-ow!!!” are not compliments. I curse, and I drink, and there may be some question as to whether I’m a proper young lady, but make no mistake about it, I’m a woman. And I deserve respect. Also, I will make a scene and get us both thrown the fuck out. As an editor’s note, the best compliment a man ever gave me that made me want to go home with him was, “I think you’re so talented.” Granted, it’s inapplicable in the instance of a random encounter, but– food for thought.

VI. DUDE!!! Is that your breath?

We’re in a crowded space that demands intimate communication (Lord, PLEASE don’t forget the cardinal rules of numbers I and III). We’re drinking. BRING GUM. It’s not that hard. Your harsh, salty breath is a DEAL BREAKER. NO MATTER WHAT. And I know it’s just the alcohol’s aftertaste, but I swear it cultivates all kinds of unpleasant thoughts surrounding the probable petri dish of disease that is your inner mouth space. A woman can’t hold her breath the whole time she’s doing you. She’ll pass out mid-stroke. And you know what you got now? That’s right. Aggravated –sexual—assault.

VII. Full disclosure of shit that will freak me out once we step out of this darkened venue.

If you have a speech impediment, I need to know it. If you have a gimp leg, tell me now. If you have a vestigial tail, you better make mention of it. I need to be apprised of everything that could categorically be described as a deformity prior to exit. I don’t care how you do it. “I got punched in the mouth while I was in ‘Nam and now all my t’s sound like s’s.” Make a joke about it. “Girl, don’t make me take this prosthetic arm off and beat your tail with it.” Whatever. I don’t care. I better know about that shit before we hit the street lights, or else someone’s face is getting busted. Nobody likes surprises. ESPECIALLY when she’s naked. If I’m to be subjected to your uncontrollable mouth spittle for the remainder of the evening, I better damn well be informed several moments prior.

All right, kids. Good luck. Just remember, once upon a time, a Bobby married a Whitney. But you know what? He nailed her first.


6 Responses to “Because I’m the kinda girl who likes to look out for her boys….or, “you, too, can get laid.””

  1. 1 DSTPHD2B
    February 26, 2010 at 3:18 am

    you continue to outdo yourself. i think i may have injured myself, i laughed so hard!

  2. 2 Geneva
    March 10, 2010 at 3:02 pm

    I spend part good part of my day not doing work. A good portion of that is reading this stuff. I just laughed so hard, I cried. You should write a book…although I would hope the bootleg man at the salon has a copy because let’s face it, I’m too cheap to pay full price. But I will support you and I know the book would be great. Thanks for contributing to my procrastination. Gotta go act like I care about this prospective client’s issues for about 30 mins.


  3. 3 @NyceBryce
    March 24, 2010 at 5:11 pm

    So I’m a first time reader. My homegirl from NYC told me to check out your blog and its hilarious. I refuse to read any of the NYC dating on the scene scorned women blogs so I only read my boy Jozen’s because he actually has talent and wit as opposed to half a bottle of Merlot and an ax to grind.

    Either way I am totally going to spend the next two hours not doing this project that’s due at four so that I can read your blog and agree with you.

  4. March 25, 2010 at 5:50 pm

    Blogger to blogger, this is the first post I read and I’m adding you to my blogroll stat! If you read mine and dig it (front-free.com), do the same por favor. Anyway, with the networking and sh*t out the way let me say this sh*t was huh-lare-ious. I’m a dude so I was all prepared to rep for the fellas and say f*ck this post (lol) but I could NOT FRONT. Though I do think a lot of broads be bullsh*ttin and I think women do know whether or not they’re gonna give up the drawls on first look (there are some exceptions but I think those are settling), the rules to “f*ckin your unicorn” are all spot-on…and can sometimes be applied in the reverse. Anyway good sh*t and look forward to readin more. Peace.

    • March 27, 2010 at 11:29 pm

      wanna know something mildly embarrassing that evidences the fact that i am, indeed, one quarter retarded? i’ve seen your blog before…and tried to add it to my blogroll…only…….i couldn’t…cause i couldn’t find anywhere that said outright “click to add to blogroll.” my simplicity reveals itself at the damndest moments.

  5. March 25, 2010 at 11:21 pm


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