So I need to date a porn star. I need to date someone who is in the sex industry. Someone whose life’s work is a study of sexiness and how to keep guys’ interest sexually. Because I become bored with somebody after maybe three times fucking them. And I’ve given up on them engaging me as human beings. Or, some of them do, but we end up being friends; they can’t be my girlfriend because I don’t want to fuck them anymore. The sex is what holds up my being in a relationship. But the sex becomes a chore, quickly switching from something I have to push for, which lasts all of one first date, to something they have to push for. When they are no longer new pussy, who gives a shit. So I need a girl who can overcome that. And the good news is, I don’t give a shit, you know, morally, if someone is employed in the sex industry. I am not a stick in the mud. But just like I kind of see it as my “work” in a relationship to be amusing and witty and full of valuable facts and ideas and etc., I need someone who sees it as their “work” in a relationship to change up their appearance and maybe walk around in a diaper and take an active role in fucking, persuading me to fuck, getting me off in new and innovative ways, etc.
I need to be beguiled. This is the danger of staying single too long. Of getting too much pussy. Of not “putting the pussy on a pedestal.” Of achieving the dream of being a “player,” someone to whom the act of putting your penis into a new young attractive woman is as rote as putting on a pair of shoes– when you win, it becomes bathwater. Something you’re just used to.
Or if not fucking, just– just fucking “game” me for Christ’s sake. Seduce me. I am tired of doing all the work. I am tired of feeling nothing. I want to be seduced. I want to be led. I want to be made to feel fucking emotions. Too much of this meaningless sex off the internet is turning me into a sociopath.
“Game” has been described as an arms race, in the sense that as guys get better and better at spouting canned shit in a certain sequence to get girls to not stop talking to them, girls will become attuned to this, and spot it as the charade it is. And thus new levels of game will need to be pioneered to get past these increasingly refined defenses and etc.
But the real arms race ought to be girls arming themselves to stay more interesting to men as men get more game to be more interesting to girls. Girls should be pursuing an arms race to stay interesting past being fucked one to five times. The war metaphor, in which guys are on team “fuck” and girls are on team “don’t fuck,” is bullshit, because what we ultimately want is to pair off and stay with each other meaningfully and maybe reproduce, and be a “team,” right? We need each other. We need two incomes; we need to be able to develop and sustain conversations and inside jokes over long periods of time; we need to prepare a meal for someone that is not the same “fuck chicken” that I prepare for every single second date. We need to hear new music, talk about new politics; we need the depth of being connected to one other human being that only a romantic relationship can provide. We need a partner in crime. We need to be Bonnie and Clyde. Us against the world. The war metaphor is bullshit because we both want the same thing. We both want each other.
So I went out and got real good at getting you. That was my job. You did not go out and get real good at keeping me. You suck at it. I am stealing an idea from Patrice O’Neal here, the “getting” and “keeping” dichotomy, but it’s a good one and he’s dead so fuck it. Guys’ job is to “get” women, women’s job is to “keep” a man; we went out and got reaaaallll fucking good at getting and you have done jack shit about keeping us. I don’t need you to be June god damn Cleaver hand waxing the kitchen tiles in heels while a glazed ham roasts to perfection– my standards are pathetically low. I just need you to tell me a joke. One joke, that I laugh at. I just need you to show me some new music. Not fucking Lady Gaga; you are not a budding gay teenager struggling with your identity in a small conservative town. Whatever “way” she is talking about being “born,” you were not born that way. Because she’s talking about dudes smoking pole. Why don’t you get me out of this rut of late baroque lute music and turn me on to some Bela Bartok or Gustav Holst or something.
We got real good at getting and you, I don’t know what you were fucking doing with your time but you fucking suck at keeping and so now everything is getting and getting and getting and it’s a colossal bore. I’m tired of getting pussy! Come find me. Come find me, I’m at my apartment; there’s a nice fish tank and a park in the back where owls live; we can talk about books instead of your job. I will tell you 10,000 jokes, you only have to tell me one good joke. It can even be one you stole. Not from Patrice, though; I know all those ones.
Or, alternately, just be a porn star. Just be some kind of sex performer, some kind of hooker, who can beguile me with fucking more than three times. One or the other. Work on the humanity or work on being some kind of irresistible fuck demon. I’ll be here at my place drinking alone.