Annals of the Flesh

“How Sex Happens for Men and Sometimes Women”

 By Ali Zahiri

 

 

There are two things on a man’s mind at all times, food and sex.  Mostly sex.   What’s on a woman’s mind?  I have no clue.  If I did I would be the most powerful man in the entire world, I’d be like the Genghis Khan of pussy.  However, I do credit my inability connect with women to my severe incompetence on the subject of women.  I do know one thing though, men claim women can have sex whenever they want.  This is false.  I’ve literally turned down dozens of women and by dozens I mean one and by one I mean she fell asleep before we could have sex.  Okay, so it’s a little easier for women and why not.  They are beautiful creatures with glorious breasts and long legs.  Men are not beautiful creatures.  We have athlete’s foot, hairy shoulders and weird balls hanging from our crotch.  Even though men are disgusting animals there are rare moments in our lives where we slip on a banana peel and fall in a vagina.

There is a reason it’s called “gettin’ lucky”.  Somehow there will be an inexplicable train of events that will result in the union of a man and women for one night.  Now for men, that just means we are in the right place and time.  Our job is to be there and ten out of ten times we will always just be there.  The woman in most cases will instigate this encounter.  Now a woman will read this and think, no I don’t.  But yes, yes you do.  As men we have the unique and uncanny ability of smelling opportunity.  It’s a delicate scent and sometimes mistaken for corn tortillas but it’s there.  Once we notice a woman sitting alone or looking at us or simply says a  “bless you” after we sneeze our mind begins to connect the dots.  Now these dots are few and far between but our impeccable sense of direction always finds a way to connect them.   The woman here might be thinking, ‘well I’m just being nice’, while men are thinking, ‘she’s totally into me’.  Sometimes the woman in this case could be feeling vulnerable.  Maybe she just got out of a relationship or maybe it was the season finale of The Bachelor.  Regardless of circumstance she feels the need for companionship.  Now if a man gets so lucky as to have sex with said woman he will brag.  He will probably flaunt his sexual experience and credit it to his “game”.  This of course is false.  This man just got lucky.  He happened to be sitting on a bar stool to the right of a woman who just caught the last five minutes of The Notebook and thought for a second every man is Ryan Gosling.  Every man isn’t Ryan Gosling.  Ryan Gosling isn’t even Ryan Gosling he is just every man in Ryan Gosling form.  Now don’t get me wrong, there is a certain protocol this man must follow to woo the female.  Step one, don’t be an ass because no one like an ass.  Step two, do not insult her.  For whatever reasons men have the odd feeling of insecurity around women and in turn they will resort to a form of misogynistic bullshit that will undoubtedly result in the woman walking away.  The final hurdle in this race is the all to prevalent Cockblock.  This Cockblock may appear in two forms:  One, a portly friend of the female who cannot stop talking about jalapeño poppers and Cheez-its and two, the loser friend of the male who only escapes the loneliness of his apartment when he runs out of episodes of Heroes to watch.  There of course is one easy answer to this problem.  You must pair these two together to form some kind of portly-lonely sexual tension that will absolutely result in awkward mustache rides and immediate dissatisfaction.  How do you do this?  Easy, pay your friend twenty-five dollars (no more, no less) to ask the generously proportioned damsel to dance.

Congratulations, you have successfully passed all the tests and the woman is now in your apartment where you explain that it’s never this messy, but it always fucking is, isn’t it?  You fucking liar, you.  None of that matters now because once the woman has mentally committed to having sex with you it will happen regardless of most circumstances.  Despite that you will certainly test this limit with your little to no knowledge of proper etiquette.  At this point the woman is most likely feeling nervous and crossing her fingers this doesn’t end up in an Emily Smart situation.  However you put her at ease by saying, “Relax, it’s not like I have a bunch of girls tied up in my basement or anything.” He says awkwardly smiling and rubbing his hands together.

No more jokes, it’s time to get down to business and set the mood right.  So what’s next?  Music, whether it’s the deep tone of Barry White or the sexy lyrics of Marvin Gaye music can assuredly swoon any woman.  Now do you choose either of these options?  Of course not, because you sir like to live dangerously and what do dangerous men listen to?  Limp Bizkit.  That’s right, so lets get tonight “Rollin” and if at any point you forgot why your doing this just remember you do it all for the “Nookie”.  The music is definitely working because as soon as Fred Durst hits that first verse she asks where your bathroom is.  It is crucial for the girl to visit the restroom before any sexual actions take place.  However what they do in there is a mystery to us men, they are probably “freshening up” with a vaginal Fabreeze of sorts.  You are thankful for that and return the favor by spritzing Aqua Di Gio on your genitals.

She’s out of the bathroom on your couch and you must begin stripping clothes off.  In this moment a strategically placed hand can be a wonderful help, caressing her body slowly while the other hands gently removes every garment of clothing.  Fuck that, you opt for plan B.  You reenact a stripping scene from Magic Mike that you’ve been practicing for three months.  In your head Channing Tatum has nothing on you.  Through her eyes it looks like a mentally retarded adolescent fighting off a swarm of bees.  The woman has now come to the fork in the road: on the left there’s a sign stating, “Get naked”, and on the right there is a sign stating, “Fuck you, go left.  It’s too late now”.  She gently whispers to herself, “Never again,” and takes off her top.

The deed is now done.  The man has successfully pounded the woman like a jackhammer on concrete while she laid motionless on her back wondering if Bridge Jones’s Diary is still on her DVR.   She declines your generous offer to stay the night and takes a taxi home where she will either feel a sense of empowerment or fall into a deathly spiral of depression that it will catapult a series of terrible decisions.  Sometimes involving and man named Ben and a man named Jerry.  The male in turn will feel like Napoleon after the coup d’état.

 

 

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