24
Sep
10

Fooler Fridays: Because y’all looove advice from people unqualified to give it……..

Fooler—

How do you do the opposite of getting beyond the friend label? As in, let’s say you fuck the guy on the first date and you don’t really know each other and you sense that he wants to be friends. How do you slow things down when you’ve crossed the proverbial finish line? And like, what happens if you do slow things down and see each other in the daylight but you decide that you don’t really like him that much?

Nipple.Etiquette.

 Nipple.

 Etiquette.

 Some men have it.

 Some men don’t.

 Now—

 What exactly is nipple etiquette?

 Idunno.

 Varies from girl to girl.

 But, in the illustrious words of Justice Potter Stewart: “[It’s] hard to define…but I know it when I see it.”

 Or–feel it, as it were.

 In the prevailing, dominant relationship model—the one that advises friendship before courtship, and courtship before fucking—it will take months to determine whether a man has nipple etiquette.

 Now, maybe this isn’t a big deal for a lot of women.

 Particularly, married-minded ones who adhere to the strict dictates of The Rules, and believe there are sure-fire tricks to catch a man, keep a man, and bind him to your side from here to eternity.

 For me and mine, I’d just as soon take a pass on being your rib if it means a pair of bruised up, raisin-y nipples for the remainder of my days.

 Look—

 In the spirit of not having my intrauterine wall lined with a topcoat of scabies, I’m all about the wait.

 It’s good to know that the man you’re sleeping with isn’t some disgusting cesspool of malignant dick cooties.

 If you have trust issues or are prone to fall for those you allow in your hotbox, or just aren’t ready to make what is an entirely momentous decision in terms of genital to genital nekkidry—

 I’m all about the wait.

 What I’m not about, is some arbitrary timeline, we adhere ourselves to, with the ultimate goal of achieving some fictitious relationship ideal.

 And, if we’re being entirely honest– in a world where presiding elders of megachurches are being accused of kid-touching; where politicians are compelled to speak out publicly against something as innocuous (and arguably, beautiful) as masturbation—I couldn’t give two damns rubbed together about some organized concept of morality; some archaic paradigm of respectability.

 I mean, think about it.

 Really think about it the friendship/courtship/fucking model.

 What the kids today call “caking”— the initial getting to know him phase; this idea of talking to someone day and night, night and day; of expending time and money; of telling your girls all the funny things he’s said, sighing wistfully into the distance, wondering, absently, what he’s doing and if he’s out there somewhere, being adorable, and absently wondering about you—

 Shit’s exhausting.

 But we do it because crushes are a natural conduit of the getting to know you phase.

 And they’re fun.

 Crushes are fun.

 And unlike so many other things in our adult world that have the harsh smear of reality—of bills, and work, and uncooperative pockets of assfat– not to mention the staid monotony of familiarity—

 A crush is the standard bearer of all things hopeful; some unpioneered emotional landscape that has all the newness of birth, fresh as the coming dawn.

 It’s a lovely thought, no?

 Hold that close for a moment.

 Close your eyes and hold the downy, warm, softness of a new, exciting, and enthralling man close to you for a moment.

 Now think about him applying the suction of a Dyson and the mangy, rabid teeth of a wolverine to your nipple.

 Think about him leaving pools of spittle behind your ears, attempting artificial resuscitation on your navel, incessantly whimpering like a woman, and finally, ejaculating into his jeans, as he’s done all of this before removing his pants.

 Think about this not being a first time mishap, but the norm. The routine.

 This beautiful man, with whom you share so much in common—

 This wonderfully artful, articulate, and pathetically flaccid man is the one in whom you’ve vested so much time, so much wardrobe coordination, so much crush.

 Now, look at you.

 Now you gotta wonder if your unwillingness to battle out his propensity for failed cockery–despite his manifold stellar accomplishments—makes you a shallow bitch.

 Now you gotta think about shit like all the other broads out there in the world hunting, thirsty for a man as good as this– and how they’d be grateful just to bask in the glow of his premature ejaculation; offering up their own pair of mahogany coconuts or russet peaches (as this is a problem that affects black women as well as white) for his soggy-mouthed, aggressively dental obliteration, nipple etiquette be damned.

 Suddenly he’s not so funny.

 He’s not that cute at all.

 Now your friends, who wanted nothing more than for you to shut the fuck up these past few months, are questioning your newfound reluctance to mention his name.

 Now, when that divine man wishes you could be with him to see some soul-stirring piece of artwork, all you can think is, “I wish that you would fuck me right. How about that? Since we’re talking about wishes and shit.”

 And even though you will have played precisely by the rules of the friendship/courtship/fucking model–ultimately, y’all will argue; you will drift apart; and some inane this or that will be to blame for the dissolution of what, once, appeared to be a great thing in the making.

 When really, it was because you hated sleeping with him.

 Bad sex is the carbon monoxide of any relationship. Everything may look like it’s on the up and up, but in due time, that shit will MURDER all that ever once lived.

 I say all of this to say—

 Think outside the box (I’ll keep the pun) this one time.

 This one time, maybe sex isn’t the “finishing” line.

 Maybe it’s the firing shot.

 If y’all are compatible in bed, and he likes you enough to want to kick it with you outside of it, and you like him enough to consider it, maybe y’all have a head start on the race.

 Maybe you need not slow anything down.

 Maybe y’all exhaust yourselves sucking and fucking and burn out like two shooting stars—

 Maybe that would have happened anyway, even if you’d waited.

 And hey—

 If he ends up being horrible at life, but is still solid otherwise (again, I’ll keep the pun)—

 Hell, Idunno—

 Insist that he always pick you up for dates, drag him in and screw him, then feign fatigue and send him on his way.

 That ought to keep you for at least a month before he gets wise.

 The point is this—

 You’ve already gone against the grain. It’s too late to backtrack.

 Maybe stop examining the speed of your pace, and start examining the state of your nipples.

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2 Responses to “Fooler Fridays: Because y’all looove advice from people unqualified to give it……..”


  1. 2 Anonymous
    June 22, 2013 at 3:44 am

    Love!


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