I am white, tall, college-educated, and of above average intelligence. I am gainfully employed, and own an automobile.* I have what I estimate to be between eight and thirteen percent body fat and am capable of bench pressing substantially more than my own weight. I am not bald. I do not have adult acne. I do not have micropenis. While I am not exactly Brad Pitt, under generous lighting conditions a drunk woman might conclude that she would have sex with me. Still, I live alone. Each night I return to my squalid one bedroom apartment, pound a couple shots of cheap brandy,* and pleasurelessly beat off to into a dirty T shirt while my cat looks on. Once I accidentally ejaculated on his ear.
I work eleven thankless hours every day at a job where every second is like a thousand lifetimes of slamming your dick in a car door, and then I have to do more research and reading, for work, and I have to go to drinks or some other jerkoff “networking” activity for work with someone who is neither going to meaningfully advance my career nor have sex with me, and then drive home in my cold wet car with only the sound of the various things that are about to break to entertain me, since my radio was stolen by Mexicans—or rather, my radio was stolen by someone of indeterminate ethnicity– anyway, after this I have about forty five minutes of “me time” to do whatever else the full range of activities in life entails.* Food. Art. Literature. Friends. That type of shit.
For occasional companionship, I date women off the internet. I search through profiles until I find one with no cosmetic birth defects who is at least ten years younger than me and has basic communications skills. This is the hard part. Then I send her a message and if she responds, I ask for her phone number. If that comes through I take her on a date to a bar that’s walking distance from my place where they serve special boutique beers that have undetectably higher-than-normal alcohol content. Three of these will get any girl besides Marion from Raiders of the Lost Ark well into the fuck zone, and if she’s enough of a drunk to handle them she’s going to fuck you anyway. I take them back to my house and have unprotected sex with them, and then never speak to them again. At some point in the process I was actually looking for true love, but it’s become so streamlined now– almost industrial. An assembly line. It’s such a perfect system that I don’t want to fuck with it by actually getting to know someone.
So that’s my deal. Join me for my adventures. Or don’t, I don’t give a fuck.
* No longer true